#end bloody traditions

[awesomecooperlove]

🩸🩸🩸TOLERANCE & ACCEPTANCE IS THE NEW NORMAL… SOON NEAR YOU🪦🪦🪦

❌❌❌

[theoptimisticdaydreamer]

Me whenever Paul and Prue tear a baker apart for something that doesn't really matter yet completely fail to praise or critique what actually does matter- flavor, taste, texture and done-ness.

The sheer audacity of it all!

[deathdxnces]

irelia is so much more aggressive towards karma in lol than lor, and i guess in part is the game and the nature of interactions in each but it's still an interesting difference. her taunts in lol say

"Your 'peace' leads to nothing but extermination!"

"You claim to speak for the Spirit… as if it doesn't move my blades."

the first one stems from disagreement (which, fair i suppose, considering despite darha's initial defiance she ultimately conformed to what was expected of her as karma while irelia rejected her philosophy and continues to). but the second one is a lot more? idk there's obvious disbelief, it's very well you're not the only one ionia is making its will manifest through (your path isn't the right one), i feel.

meanwhile in lor irelia is a lot more respectful towards karma in their interactions, and the deference she shows even comes across as seeking guidance, especially the second one.

K: "Where there is life, there is hope." I: "We will try to keep hope in our hearts, enlightened one."

K: "Ionia speaks through me." I: "Then tell me when this bloody fight will end."

and i don't think they're mutually exclusive necessarily! irelia has complex feelings about what karma represents (as a child, she learned to follow karma's teachings; but her family's inability to fight back against noxian violence led to their deaths, as it did with so many ionians). despite that background, irelia came to symbolize the opposite path: that non-violence regardless of circumstance isn't the answer, that you should defy and resist and strike back against those who try to harm you. she fought back. she continues fighting back, and it was fighting back (not just her but everyone who did) that ensured ionia still stands.

that, as well as the fact ionia is described as almost a living being on its own, with its own spirit and will, and the fact not once did it shun irelia for the path she chose and not for a moment did her connection with the land waiver, are all important reasons why i think irelia, despite her doubts, feels justified in her actions. and feelings justified sometimes would come with putting her and karma at odds, when they're standing for fundamentally opposite approaches. there would be disagreement between them, and i don't think that would be rare. irelia respects karma and what she represents, and there's no way she entirely let go of seeing karma as someone almost divine, for her unique connection with the spirit of ionia (the fact she still refers to her as enlightened one in lor, and the respect shining through in that line)

they don't see things eye to eye, but irelia respects her greatly. i do think, in part, her stance towards karma is also different when compared to how much more aggressive she is towards other characters that preach neutrality (it's the kinkou) because she understands darha's hesitation and doubt about using strength and violence (it's not as if irelia herself is entirely certain she did the right thing, that she didn't lead her people towards a wrong path, that she didn't have a part in breaking ionia and what it is and ensuring it can never be recovered). but irelia never regrets fighting back, and continues to do so. and then of course there's the fact karma is, in a way, a religious leader, one she was taught to follow as a child, and that's not always easily set aside, regardless of how much irelia came to disagree with karma's philosophy.

[roanofarcc]

A PIPE DREAM

Pairing. boone x reader

Summary. storm chasing was all fun and games until you started crushing on one of your team members. and boone had a bad habit of falling hard. 

Warnings. alleged one-sided feelings, mentions of a small injury, fluff

A/N. big thanks to the person who requested a boone fic bc I love that Arkansas hillbilly

word count. 1.6k || masterlist

Besides the epic tornados, Boone's favorite thing about storm chasing was the sense of community, oddly enough. Sure, everything was a competition between storm chasers, but when night fell, you’d find everyone gathered in some shitty little motel, tailgating in the parking lot. 

The Wrangled arrived as other teams were passing out cans of beer and greasy burgers they bought from the diner just across the road. Boone was eager to swap stories and relax after another exciting chase, but he couldn’t ignore the painful burn across his upper arm, which dulled his mood a little. 

He wanted to get a good shot of the tornado for the viewers but overestimated the amount of debris the storm had picked up. Tyler urged him to stay in the car, so Boone thought hanging out of the window was just as safe until a flying tree branch from god-only-knew where sliced his arm real good. He didn’t drop his phone, thankfully, but he did ruin his shirt. Tyler had bandaged it up before they headed off again, but it still hurt like a bitch. 

He hopped out of the truck and glanced at his wrapped arm, cursing when he realized he’d bled through the gauze. 

“Boone!” Your voice sounded from behind him, happy and full of energy despite the long day. You loved tailgating almost as much as he did. The two of you had a tradition that started with shot-gunning a beer and ended with you both being the last to turn in for the night. “Look what I got!” You held up two cans of beer with a bright smile on your face, but you stopped short in front of him, your smiling fell quickly as your eyes landed on his bloodied arm. 

“Shit, Boone,” you said, grasping his arm just below the bandage. Your fingers were cold from the beers, but he felt himself flush under your touch. It was stupid, he thought, his crush on you. He knew it was a pipe dream, but he couldn’t help himself. The second you joined the Wranglers, with an insane amount of knowledge of storms and a certain sweetness that could make even the meanest assholes crack a smile, he knew he was done for. It didn’t help that you were too nice. He sometimes wished you were a little meaner, then maybe he’d be able to shift his affection somewhere else, but you didn’t seem to have a mean bone in your body. 

He cleared his throat and shot you a reassuring smile. “It’s just a little scratch.”

Your frown deepened as you examined the bloodied gauze under the dim light in the parking lot. “Looks like a little more than that.” You tugged on his elbow gently as you said, “Come on. I’ll change the bandage.” 

A part of Boone wanted to decline your offer, but he knew he couldn’t say no to you. Not when you guided him toward the building and away from the rowdy crowd in the parking lot. 

You led him into your motel room, switching on the lights and grabbing a first aid kit you always kept stocked for moments like that one. Boone stood, shifting in his shoes as he felt himself start to panic. It was one thing being with you and the rest of the team; they, unknowingly, acted as a sort of buffer between him and his feelings. But being alone with you was a whole different ball game. He knew it was all in his head, one-sided longing that he wished would go away but refused to. 

“Earth to Boone,” you called out, patting the edge of the bed beside where you sat. He sat down, only to have you scoot closer and grab his arm, pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt. Carefully, you unwrapped the bandage and revealed the cut; it looked worse than he thought it had been, but that explained why his whole arm ached each time he moved it. “A little scratch,” you huffed under your breath. “How’d you even manage this?” 

Boone ducked his head sheepishly. “I wanted a good shot.” 

You gazed at him for a moment, closer to his face than he was sure you’d ever been before. He could see the little flecks in your eyes and the pretty line of your face. A small smile curled on your lips, and you asked, “Did you at least get it?” 

He copied your smile. “Hell yeah.” 

As you rummaged around in the first aid kit, you hummed. “Then at least it was somewhat worth it. But you should be careful.” The smell of alcohol filled his nose. “This gonna hurt, okay? But here,” you held out your opposite hand toward him and he stared at you, confused. “Squeeze my hand. It’ll help, a little.” 

His face felt on fire. He was a grown man, but he felt back in grade school, harboring a school-boy crush on his friend. Maybe it was a little pathic, but he grasped your hand because it was probably the only time he’d have an excuse to. You weren’t lying about it hurting. He hissed through his teeth and squeezed your hand as you cleaned off the cut with the alcohol pad. 

When you were done, you pulled your hand away, and he tried not to let his disappointment show. It only took you a minute or two to re-wrap his arm; you’d done it a million times between the rest of the crew when they sustained little injuries here and there. 

“There,” you said, running your finger across the bandage softly until you trailed up his arm to where his sleeve sat on his shoulder. You fixed it back into place before smiling sweety once more. “Better?” Boone’s breath caught in his throat, so he nodded. 

After that, you two rejoined the Wranglers and the other storm chasers outside. You continued your tradition, shot-gunning beers before you both tossed them to the ground with heavy laughs and a high five. Only when Boone’s hand met yours, you wrapped your fingers around his for just a moment, giving his hand a light squeeze as you grinned in the moonlight. Boone felt his heart quicken in his chest. 

You lingered beside him the whole time, which wasn’t unheard of but for some reason, to Boone, it felt different. He thought maybe he was too much in his head, reading into every little thing too closely. 

Gradually, everyone petered out and retreated to their rooms to get a couple hours of shut-eye before they met another day of chasing the brewing storm cells. But you and Boone remained seated on the tailgate of the rig, nursing another beer and watching the stars that emerged after a day full of cloud cover. You had your head tilted upwards, mouth slightly parted in awe, which is how you looked every time you saw the stars. Boone thought it was cute, how something you saw nearly every night still captured your attention like that. 

He found himself watching you more than stars, finding you more stunning. But he didn’t realize you had caught him until you cleared your throat and his eye widened almost comically. “Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” you asked, a light, teasing tone in your voice. 

Boone fumbled for a response but managed to say, “You look nice. Pretty.” 

A softness rolled across your features that made him feel even more out of his league. He was worried he overstepped; did friends call each other pretty? Was he just overthinking it? 

You turned your body towards him, you knee bumping against his thigh as you leaned just a little bit closer to him with a smile. “You look pretty too,” you said, earning a light chuckle from Boone. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious!” 

“Sure you are,” he said, brushing you off as he fiddled with the tab of his beer can. He expected you to drop it, switch the subject because you had no idea of the feelings that bombarded his heart and brain, but you did the last thing he expected.

You grasped the side of his face with one hand, gently but with just enough force to get him to meet your gaze. He felt hot and confused, looking at you almost nose to nose. Boone swore his heart was about to beat right out of his chest and land at your feet. 

“I can prove it,” you whispered, low and slow.

Boone’s brain short-circuited; he was surely dreaming. Maybe the tree branch that sliced his arm really knocked him in the head and he was in some comma. 

Whether it was real or not, he didn’t move for fear of messing it up or breaking the dream he was surely having. Your thumb brushed across his cheek and your eyes searched his for something, sparkling in the starlight. Slowly you leaned forward, and his body moved without help from his mind, meeting you halfway. 

The kiss was light, sweet just as you were. Boone wasn’t sure there were words to properly describe his feelings in that moment. All he knew was that he needed you, and he had you. His hands found your waist as you brought your other hand up to cup his face, deepening the kiss just slightly. He could have stayed like that forever, forgoing breathing, but you pulled back just slightly and smiled widely. 

“Wow,” he whistled. 

 “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” you admitted. 

Boone still wasn’t one-hundred percent sure he wasn’t dreaming, but he was going along with it. “Really?” You nodded. “Me too,” he said, suddenly a lot braver than he had been. He closed the small gap between you two again, kissing you like he’d thought about since he first lied his eyes on you.

[tacticaldiary]

A Cracked And Fissured Door

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"You just...you make me feel like you only want me when nobody's looking."

It stings, if she's being honest. Being kept at an arms length when in public. Most people know about them, so she's not sure why he's so...cold and distant when they're not alone.

Masterlist

"If he sends us out before next week I'm quitting." Soap groans, back cracking as he flops down forward on the bar. "Three ops in a week? What do I look like, a machine?"

Gaz snickers, raising his glass to that. "Bloody might well be at this point."

She hides a smile behind her own drink, leaning back into the bar. They had done three ops in a week, mission after mission after mission. It had been pretty rough, just as Soap said and she was more than ready to crash and burn and sleep for three days straight but abandoning their tradition of getting drinks at this specific bar everything Saturday was not something anyone on the 141 was willing to break.

"Just be glad we got the weekend off." Ghost says from beside her. She smiles warmly at him, is rewarded with a slightly blank look.

The flicker of her smile is hid behind another sip.

"Betcha your gonna take advantage of that, eh?" Soap nudges her, looking pointedly between her and Ghost. The latter rolls his eyes and says nothing.

"Only thing I'm looking forward to is an actual mattress." She knocks back the last of her drink and stands, shrugging Gaz's arm slung over her shoulder. "Speaking of which, I think it's about time we call it a night." Casting a glance at her boyfriend, who merely nods in confirmation and pushes the stool back himself, she nods at the others. "Don't cause too much trouble, boys. Text us when you're home safe, yeah?"

"We just got shot at for a week, don't think a car ride home is gonna be the end of us." Soap snorts.

"You never know." Is all she says before stepping out of the bar with Ghost, who offers her her coat to shrug on.

"Hell of a week." She comments, glancing at him gratefully as she shrugs on the warm fabric.

"Just glad it's over," Simon says simply.

Walking back to their car, she can't help but cast quiet glances at him as they walk. She knows Ghost notices them, chooses to keep looking ahead and keep the silence.

Truth be told, she aches to touch him.

Aches to feel his skin on hers, to feel the callouses of his hands brush against hers. His heat, ever all-encompassing makes her feel safe in a way no bulletproof vest ever could.

"Think I might ask Price to assign me desk duty for a while." She jokes, knocking their shoulders together gently.

To the untrained eye, to someone who might not have been tuned to what makes Simon Simon, it wouldn't have been noticeable, but he leans subtly away so they don't touch again.

She doesn't mention it, but it makes her heart heavy.

It's nothing new. She's not sure why she's even surprised anymore.

Trying again, her arm hangs beside her, purposefully brushing against his gloves. The frown on her face deepens when he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Maybe it's the exhausting week she's had, but it gets to her, infects her heart, mind, and soul with the insecurity she keeps locked behind a cracked and fissured door in her mind.

It stings, if she's being honest.

He's not the most...social person. Closed off and private, but baring her soul to someone she loves and getting so little in return...

Being kept at an arm's length when in public, even though their relationship is not a secret. Most people know, actually, so she's not sure why he's so...cold and distant when they're not alone.

The car ride home is silent, but not in a comfortable way their quiet is usually shared. Simon seems to pick up on it, because he grips the steering wheel a little too hard, the tension in his shoulders a little too foreign.

Gaz had no problem touching her. A friendly punch to the arm, an arm around her shoulder. Soap was a touchy person by nature, nudging her and ruffling her hair.

So why was it that Simon always pulled away?

The one person who should love her the most, who should be proud of loving her...why does he pull away and pretend this thing between them doesn't exist.

She doesn't get it, hasn't understood for the past two years they've been together. Pushing was not something she'd considered given his stubbornness and private nature, but there's no denying she's always felt a twinge of hurt whenever he disregards her in public.

Was he...ashamed? Of her? Did he not want to be seen with her?

The thought latches itself onto her, sucking away the usual confidence she carries and leaving her a nervous mess. It makes her sick. Before she knows it they're back home but she can't find herself to walk any farther than the front door that's shut behind her.

He doesn't comment on it, just casts her an inquisitive look before moving to the kitchen in view.

Simon always did like a cup of tea before bed.

"Simon?" The word comes out a little garbled, caught in her indecision, and morphed into something muffled. He hears it, because of course he does, and hums. Doesn't look up from where he's rifling through the cupboards for his kettle.

The air is cold in her lungs, freezes up with nerves, and this is all so ridiculous. It's stupid and she shouldn't be feeling this way but she does because she just does.

Trust was a precious jewel, a diamond only given to those who trusted enough to keep it unmarred. Necklaces and earrings and bracelets, she feels like she could make millions of intricate pieces with the bits of trust she had bared for Simon to take and keep as his own.

Simon knows what she loves, what she hates, how she feels about anything and everything. The rhyme and reasons, the way she ticks, and what throws her off kilter. He knows it all, it's been given willingly and eagerly to the man who took her heart with that rough demeanour on the tarmac two years ago.

She had given him all her gems, the shiniest and the dullest ones, but he's never even been bothered to spare her a piece of coal.

When she doesn't speak immediately, he pauses his movements and sets down the kettle on the counter with a 'clink'. "What's the matter, love?" He straightens up.

"Do you want to be with me?" She blurts out, unable to fathom leaving this conversation for another day. Not when she's so worked up and hurt and feeling.

His face stays blank, and when he responds it's almost as if he's doing it carefully. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I asked." The sides of her coat are clutched with a knuckle-white grip, nausea making her an inch away from ruining the lovely carpet they'd picked out together when they'd first moved in.

Simon furrows his brows. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"That's not what I asked." Unease starts to curl up in her gut. "Do you like me, Simon?"

"Of course I fucking like you, what are you talking about?"

"You sure don't act like it."

There.

It's in the open now. Simon stares at her for a moment, shocked or stunned or whatever emotion that causes him to clam up for a moment.

He never really was good at this part of their relationship, but this...it was vital. It was important because she refuses to let this problem define what they have together.

"You don't touch me when we're not alone." She starts, "You act like I'm just no one when we're out together. You barely acknowledge me any more than anybody else, pull away when I try to touch you." It feels good to let this all off her chest. Months and months of trying to figure out what was going on. "Tell me why. I just want to know why."

"I'm a private person-"

"No Simon, that's not what this is." She shakes her head, emotion rising inside her. "You just...you make me feel like you only want me when nobody's looking. Like I'm...like you want to keep me a secret."

Her eyes are glassy because saying it hurts so fucking much, but it needs to be said. It needs to be voiced, he needs to listen and acknowledge-

"You know that's not true, so it shouldn't be a bloody problem-"

"Do I?" A laugh burst out of her, unexpected and short. It's enough to cut him off, cause him to narrow his eyes. "You've never told or indicated that to me. Not once. Not in two years."

"It's common sense. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't want you." She can tell he's trying to stay level, to meet her in the middle but all caution gets thrown to the wind because is he really trying to argue with her on this?

"No, it's not." She insists, trying not to raise her voice as anger bubbles up inside her. Was he not getting it? Not understanding that this was hurting her? That he was hurting her? "Sometimes I-..." She swallows, "Sometimes I'll be having a great time, like today. I'll be laughing and enjoying myself and then I'll glance at you, or try and do something as simple as brush shoulders, and I'll watch you push me away. Or pull away." Her voice waver but she fights to keep it steady. "And it makes me feel miserable because what is it about me that makes my own boyfriend not want to accidentally touch me?"

"Why didn't you tell me before?" He says, hackles raised at being put on the spot like this. Ghost doesn't mean to, but this is all so new to him and the only thing he knows how to do in these rapidly changing situations is to be sharp and jagged and tense. "If you're so miserable, why are you still here?"

"Because I love you!" She cries out. "And I can't help but think that I might never get the same back from you." Her grip on her coat tightens.

There's a beat of silence.

"I never asked you to. You knew what you were getting yourself into."

His words cut through the quiet, as sharp as the blades he keeps strapped to his thigh.

"Oh, fuck you." She whispers. "Don't give me that bullshit. That's not an excuse for not trying-"

"Not trying?" His voice gets slightly louder. "I try every day. I try to be someone you deserve but you're bloody well making it difficult when-"

"Just stop!" She yells over him. "Stop. I'm not asking for something you can't give. I'm just asking for an explanation."

"I can't-"

"You can!" To her dismay, her eyes burn with tears that are bound to fall in a few seconds, but she's too far into it to turn around now. "It's been two fucking years, Simon. Two years. I've never pushed or pressured you, I've listened and sat here and tried to be the one you can come to, but you never do." She sniffles, wiping her tears away roughly.

He stays silent, visibly frustrated but letting her talk.

"Do you know what they say back at base?" She spits out. "About me? They say I've forced you into being with me." A hollow laugh. "That I've got some dirt on you that keeps you quiet, or that I'm just someone you pass the time at night with because everyone thinks that you want nothing to do with me during the day. They talk about why we're still together, why you're still with me when you clearly have no interest." Her tears are long forgotten, left to trail down her cheeks in rivers of hurt. "They say...they say I'm only on the 141 because of our relationship."

And that was what hurt the most. Her own skills undermined like that.

That startles him enough to pull his brows in confusion "I didn't know..."

"Of course you don't, why would they say it in front of the man who looks like he could snap their spines in half?"

She waits for him to speak. To say something, anything, but all he does is stare at her with those half-blank eyes that she can never decipher and it infuriates her because did he not just listen to what she's told him.

"You know what, forget it." She chokes out. "I'm done. I'm fucking done with this." She gestures to them both, vaguely watching his eyes widen with muted panic. Getting shoved into a woodchipper would be less painful than the hurt that tears through her chest, hiccupping on swallowed sobs.

"Hold on-"

"I can't be the only one keeping us both afloat." She reaches behind her for the doorknob. "I don't want that. I love you, Simon. I really do, but it hurts so fucking much when you act like I'm disposable, like you're ashamed of being seen with me."

The door is pulled open by her, and then roughly shoved shut by Simon. He moves quicker than she could register, behind the counter one moment and right in front of her the next. His hand stays firmly on the door, keeping it shut as he leans down to catch her gaze.

"Ashamed is the last thing I am about you." He says quickly, clumsily. "I-...fucking hell that's not right at all, love."

Simon is...he's panicking.

The thought strikes her immediately with the way his chest rises and falls quickly, the lack of that cold clipped grace in his voice.

"I don't care." She chokes on a cry, hands planting themselves firmly on his chest to shove him away. It's like nudging a brick wall. The man is immovable, standing in place with their bodies so close it feels like they're sharing heat. "I'm tired, and you're making it worse so let me go." He grabs her wrists, presses them against himself to keep her in place. His hands are warm, rid of the gloves he usually dons.

She's met with every inch of that scarred face of his. She hadn't noticed but he'd discarded his mask as he'd been rushing around the counter to get to her.

"Listen to me." He breathes, trying to get his thoughts straight and keep her there with him. He can't lose her, can't let her walk out the door because he's afraid that she might never come back. "Please."

It's the last word that pauses her struggle. Simon...he was someone who operated on orders and demands so the frantic and silent plea pushed into the word is enough to make her still for a moment.

And a moment is all he needs.

"I've never..." He thinks for a moment. Never has she seen him look so frazzled. He tries again. "Everyone I've ever loved has been killed." Her eyes widen at the declaration. "My family. My friends...everyone." His breath fans over her face with how he's leaned down, hot so very him. "I think I'm afraid if I show the world I love you it might try and take you from me too." Simon's voice breaks at the end, as if he's voiced something from his nightmares and despite the pain she's feeling the sound slices through her. "And I can't...I can't live with losing you too."

With bated breath, he waits for her to respond. Part of him can't bear to look her in the eyes after the admission but he finds himself staring at her face anyway, drinking in any sign of hope.

Hope. How long has it been since he's felt the warm rays of such a feeling?

Slowly, so slowly it makes his breath hitch, she tugs her hand free on his. For a moment Simon thinks she might push him away again and his heart sinks like a stone, but then her fingertips graze his face, her hands cup his cheeks and suddenly they interlock behind his head, pulling him in.

Simon crushes her into him, tucking her head under his chin with a shuddering breath of relief. He's not lost her, not completely.

Hope.

There was still such a thing for a man like him after all.

"I'm not going anywhere." She mumbles into the crook of his neck, the feeling of his lips moving on his skin sending a shiver up his spine. "I'm so sorry, Simon. If you'd told me that before I would have tried to help-..."

Simon shakes his head immediately, arms tightening around her. "I chose not to tell you. The thought of coming home and seeing you on the ground...bloody...like them." He swallows past the lump in his throat. "Fuck, I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart."

Simon didn't apologise often, so when he did that means he knows he's fucked up.

She does not tell him it's alright, that she forgives him or that he's fine. Because he's not. His apology, his honesty doesn't make the months of hurt go away. It still aches at her like before, but this time the ache has a meaning behind it. It has a reason.

They hold each other for a moment, against the door, two people knee-deep in a problem that's been brewing for weeks and weeks, bubbled over the edge in the ugliest way possible.

"I need you to try." She whispers after a moment, the barest of smiles gracing her face when he nods slowly.

"I know." He says simply against her hair. Gently swaying in each other's hold, both are content to stay there for a while, to calm their racing hearts with the knowledge that the other is still there, is real and solid under their hands.

And it's enough.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Change is a slow trek to an ever extending finish line.

Simon keeps his word. If there's anything it's good at, it's resilience. Though it makes him antsy and paranoid and dare he say slightly nervous to open such a part of him to somebody again, he tries.

He tried because he'd rather saw his own arm off than be the one who gives her a reason to leave. Not her. Not the best thing that's happened to him in years, the person who's managed to wake up Simon after years of being Ghost.

A subtle brush of hands as they walk.

An arm around her shoulder while they drink.

Thighs and sides pressed together as they take their seats on a heli.

The squeeze of her knee from under the table.

It builds and builds into something warm and new and fresh, a feeling that overshadows all the worry he had about the universe having a vendetta against him because if there was one good thing that Simon Riley wanted to keep, it was her.

Their weekend is filled with conversations, real conversations about things they've kept to themselves, worries and concerns, and moments of hesitance. He tries his best, though some words die on his tongue before he can get them out. She pushes him, but never more than he can take. Heart, body, and soul, she knows him like the back of her hand but he's the only one who can truly let her into his mind.

All that aside Simon also has another more personal task to work through once their weekend is over.

After paying some not-so-nice visits to more than a dozen people (to his absolute fury), she never once hears a peep of another disgusting rumour ever again.

Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!

(26/07/2023)

[pretty-little-mind33]

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: You and James are friends with benefits until daisies and an incident with one asshole Quidditch player stirs up some hidden (or not-so-hidden) feelings

Genre: Fluffy fluff <3

Warnings: swearing, slut shaming, mentions of sex, pranks

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

Since you met him in Charms class your fourth year he'd been a nuisance. In the beginning, you didn't even consider him; he was just some boy who was consistently louder than anyone else in the room and incredibly obnoxious.

Only eventually, it became obvious he'd somehow wormed his way into your heart when in the first month of your seventh year, three drinks in and one drunken kiss later, James Potter had ended up taking more than just your heart.

Your mutually-beneficial-arrangement, which has blossomed since then, is the reason you're now standing in front of the Gryffindor changing room. The boys' changing room.

You and James have this new tradition where, after he wins an important game, you'll meet him in the changing room after his teammates had left and, well, you were his reward.

Slowly, you run a hand through your hair, fixing the barrette you have pinned on one side, and then smooth your hand down your uniform. Hesitantly, you turn the handle.

Once you walk in, it takes approximately less than three seconds for you to realize you made a terrible mistake.

Inside you're met with loud, bustling, chatter as Gryffindor boys you only know by name and Quidditch positions pack their equipment and uniforms into their bags. You freeze.

One of the boys turns around, "What the bloody fuck is a girl doing in here?" He exclaims, sounding truly horrified.

Immediately, you spin around to leave but without warning another boy seemingly materializes next to you and slams his hand into the door. You almost bump into it as it shuts directly in front of you. You swallow nervously as you have no choice but to turn around.

"Y/n?" You hear your name and an immediate sense of relief rushes over you. You watch James walk in. His hair is still damp from a shower and a towel is thrown over his shoulder.

His look of confusion quickly turns into realization when he scans you and sees the small flower in your hand. Usually, when he wins you gift him a daisy and he likes to keep them all in the pocket of his Captain's uniform as good luck charms.

James's eyes then jump to his teammate and when he sees how close his arm is to your head and how close he is to you in general, he frowns, "Hey O'Conner, back it up, buddy." He says, hiding his annoyance behind a joke as he quickly makes his way to you.

O'Conner huffs but listens to James anyway. He sends you a look and then laughs to himself, "Is this your girlfriend, Potter. Seems like she has a little present for you." O'Conner looks at the daisy in your hand and you quickly hide it behind your back, cheeks burning hot.

When James reaches you, he gently holds your shoulder and turns you around. His mouth is pressed near your ear as he whispers, "Come on," and leads you out the door.

Even when James shuts the door behind you, you can still hear mocking and whistles from inside the changing room and you've never been more embarrassed in your life. You're sure James can sense how anxious you've become because he runs his thumb over your knuckles, "It's okay, love. You're just a little early. You can come back in thirty minutes and it will just be just us, like it usually is."

You stare at him and, after a moment, shake your head. You don't have to speak or explain yourself for James to understand as he kisses your forehead, "Ok, I'll see you at Honeydukes in a bit then? Pads and Moony said they invited you already?"

"Yeah." Is all you say.

James gently slides his hand down your cheeks and uses his thumb and index finger to tilt your chin up, "Gimme a smile, love?" He asks seriously.

You look into his eyes, rolling yours, but smile at him anyways. You hear him mumble something and then he swiftly plucks the daisy from your hand and, because he doesn't have any available pockets, puts it behind his ear.

When James sends you his signature smirk, you think you're melting.

"Bye Jamie," You whisper as he turns around to walk into the changing room again. The door opens and you can hear the laughter inside but they don't bother you anymore when you see a glimpse of James giving one of his teammates the middle finger as the daisy stays in his hair.

* * *

Honeydukes is known to be busy after Quidditch matches and it's especially busy when Gryffindor wins. It's a tradition that originated from James, Sirius, and Remus, and now almost everyone just comes along until it's turned into a full party.

James has his arm draped over the booth behind you as he leans against the corner. He laughs as Sirius chugs Butterbeer as quickly as possible. Your nose scrunches in disgust and Remus quickly snatches what was his drink away from Sirius's hands, "You're a pig." Remus reprimands gently and rolls his eyes.

Sirius just winks, licks his lips, and leans in to wipe the side of his mouth on the collar of Remus's sweater, to which the latter smacks him over the head and earns an amused, still muffled, laugh.

You smile. You're lost in thoughts when you suddenly feel James's fingers draw circles and various shapes on your back. It's something he does almost routinely. You turn to him, but he doesn't look back at you as his fingers find your hair and play with the strands. You admire how his hazel eyes dart from Remus to Sirius depending on who's talking. You like the way his messy black hair, now dry, is curling around his forehead and you have to resist pushing up his round glasses, which sit a little low on his nose.

You have completely lost track of their conversation and when you're pulled down to earth by a shout from another drunk student, you avert your gaze from James and instead focus on your nearly finished Butterbeer. A blush of embarrassment heats your cheeks and you slide out of the booth.

"Everything ok?" Sirius asks and the boys look at you.

You smile and lift your glass, "Yeah, I just want another round."

"Alright, love." James says, turning his head a little. You can see the daisy still hiding in his curls and your chest tightens.

You really wish you'd known in fourth year how badly you'd fall for James Potter, because maybe then you could have prevented the pain of how shitty it feels to only admire him from afar.

Pushing past a bunch of students, you go to lean against the bar as you wait your turn to order. You hadn't heard someone come up to you until you feel someone's shoulder close to yours. Because of the intimacy, you think it's one of your friends, "Hey–" You start and look up, only to jump a little as O'Conner grins down at you.

Quintin O'Conner is a rather tall, handsome boy with short, thin, auburn hair. His vibrant green eyes shine as he tips his full glass of beer with an obnoxious smirk, "Hey, stalker."

You frown at the nickname, "Can I help you?" You ask.

"Sure." O'Conner licks his lips, "Potter didn't say you were his girlfriend, so I'm wondering if you're free tomorrow night? If I'm honest, I'd love one of your good luck daisies too." His hand slides over the counter and hesitates at your hand. You shift.

James told his teammates about your daisies? You blush, "Oh um, no, those are for James." You try to explain without sounding creepy and possessive. O'Conner fakes a pout and this time his hand reaches yours and his thumb caresses along your palm.

"Yeah, but like, he's not your boyfriend is he?"

"He's not but,"

"Listen, it's pretty obvious whatever activities you and Potter do in private has caused you to fall in love with him but, clearly, he just doesn't feel the same," O'Conner now grips your hand and leans in way too close, "Y/n, if you were mine I would never take you for granted." He looks you over, his eyes more sinister than his words.

You feel like someone has just choked you. Has James been going around telling people you've been hooking up? You thought you'd agreed you wouldn't even tell Sirius and Remus? You stare at O'Conner, "How do you know that?" You stutter.

"Please," O'Conner rolls his eyes, "It's quite obvious you know? You didn't just walk into the boys changing rooms looking for Potter to have a chat, did you? Plus, anyway, Potter told us the moment you left."

You shake my head automatically as his hand grips yours and somehow leans in even closer. "What's he doing to you that I can't do?" O'Conner's lips are close to your ear now and a shiver runs down your spine. Quickly, you pull your hand away and swoop under and around him.

"Sorry, I have to go." You mumble and start to make your way back to the booth, head spinning.

"Slut," You hear O’Conner shout over the chatter and you wince, closing your eyes.

When you find your way back to Sirius, Remus, and James empty handed, they look at you confused, "What's wrong, love?" James asks, sitting up in his seat. His eyes look you over and you can tell just by his eyebrow scrunch he knows you're upset.

Sirius and Remus look equally concerned and they look towards the bar, only by now O'Conner has probably gone to bother another unsuspecting girl.

When you don't move, James is up on his feet and is making his way towards you. He holds out his arms and tries to wrap them around your shoulders comfortingly but you push your arms outwards and up so he can't touch you. You shake your head. Now, the boys look even more concerned, "Seriously, what happened, Y/n?" James whispers and crosses his arms.

You look at him and the daisy in his hair just pisses you off now, "Did you tell them?" You ask, the butterbeer in your system creating a light buzz, making your head feels fuzzy, "James, did you tell them?"

"What?" James's eyes round.

"You heard me." You hiss. Sirius and Remus look at each other confused.

"Please, just tell me what happened." James pleads in another whisper as he starts to walk towards you again, only this time you move away from him.

"Oi, Potter, next time keep your bitch on a tighter leash. She was all over me a few moments ago." You suddenly hear O'Conner taunt and your head snaps towards the sound. O'Conner's arm is swung around another girl's shoulder as he grins at you.

"What the fuck did you just say, man?" Sirius exclaims as Remus instantly holds his arm back.

You glance at James and you can see his mind racing. He's staring at O'Conner but he hasn't reacted or even moved in any way. Instead, he looks at you, and his eyes soften, "Y/n," He starts but you don't wait for an explanation and just turn around.

You've barely gone out the door when James is behind you again, "Wait, please. Talk to me." He says and his hand skims your arm. Reluctantly, you pause and let out a sigh,

"I'm so fucking mad at you, James." You exclaim.

"Okay," James's voice is calm and he guides you to turn around and look at him, "Why is that, love?" He's eerily calm, especially since he has a few drinks in him, and you're extremely suspicious.

"Why are you so calm?" You ask lightly, only a little hurt he didn't stand up for you in Honeydukes.

James tilts his head, "After what O'Conner said? Sweetheart, I'm fucking furious but that wanker isn't who I care about right now." He takes a breath, "I want to know what happened to make you so mad at me."

You glare at him, "We promised we wouldn't tell anyone about us."

James looks flustered, "Yeah? And I haven't." He defends.

You roll your eyes, "So why did O'Conner come up to me asking me about what you do to me, James?"

James looks like he's seen a ghost. He shakes his head and his hands come up to your shoulders, he’s gentle as he holds you, "Y/n, I never told him anything. Bloody hell, I'd never brag about shagging you to anyone, you deserve so much more than that."

He looks so sincere you sigh, "You think he just figured it out then?" You ask.

James smirks and plucks the daisy from behind his ear. He twirls it in front of you, "I mean this is pretty damning, isn't it?"

Your smile weakens, "Do you not like them?"

James laughs a little and his hand comes up to hold your cheek, "I love them, love." His hand lingers on your cheek and he starts to move his thumb, "Come on, let’s go back in, yeah?”

He starts to turn around but you grab his wrist, "Promise you didn't tell them about us?" You whisper, still feeling insecure.

"I promise." He reassures you. When a small bell chimes, he looks back to the door which swings open and Sirius and Remus come stumbling out.

Remus is holding onto Sirius's collar, helping him stay on his feet, "Mates, let's leave. Pads has had way too much to drink and he almost knocked O'Conner's teeth out in there." He groans. You and James look at each other, laughing.

"I'm seriously debating going back in there and punching that asshole myself." James jokes, swinging his arm around your shoulder and Sirius grins drunkenly.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Prongs?" He asks, staggering on his feet.

"Oh, I sure am." James says, smirking.

* * *

It happened a week later. All week, James had been visibly agitated after his Quidditch practices and he wouldn't tell you why.

It's Saturday morning now. Mail time. You're sitting in your usual seats: James and Sirius on one side, You and Remus on the other. James is directly in front of you and he’s been playing footsies since you all sat down. You can't hide your giggles and he can't hide his smile.

"Hey, hey, the show is starting soon."Sirius leans in after a while and smirks. James looks around excitedly as owls start to swoop in from the sky. You look at them: they look like giddy children that have just been allowed to have candy after 8pm.

"What did you guys do?" You ask, raising an eyebrow.

Remus chuckles from beside you, "You'll see."

You glance at him, surprised, "You're in on it, Moony?"

"Of course he is, this was a group project, doll." Sirius winked and then his eyes follow a brown owl. You recognize it as James's owl, only it isn't flying towards you guys.

"Where is your owl going, Jamie?" You frown

"Somewhere special." James says nonchalantly and turns to watch, his arms crossed as he leans on Sirius: who is leaning forward himself and resting his chin on his hand as he wears a smug grin.

You watch his owl swoop down near where some Gryffindor Quidditch players are eating, O'Conner being one of them. He's laughing obnoxiously and anger bubbles inside you.

Remus leans in to you and whispers, "3…2…1," Pause and then James's owl drops a letter in front of O'Conner. Sirius first pumps the air as James smirks.

"You sent O'Conner a letter?" You ask James, hesitantly.

"Better." He grins. As if in clock work, a loud voice booms over the dinning hall. You recognize it immediately, it's James. Well, it kinda sounds like James only he's making an exaggerated, frankly mocking, Australian accent. Quite like how O'Conner sounds normally.

James is also clearly attempting to sound more feminine and you cover your mouth in shock as James from inside the howler begins to talk, "Quinnie, this is mummy," You look at James and Sirius, who look like they're already pissing their pants with laughter.

"Hi my darling. I'm replying to your earlier letter. Daddy and I think you should get that itchy rash on your penis checked out sooner rather than later, honey. You've been a good boy and used protection, right?"

Remus snorts from next to you as you hear some laughter resound around the room. O'Conner looks absolutely mortified as his friends laugh around him. His misery isn't over as the howler continues, "Try Granny's cream every night, ok? Daddy and I hope you feel better soon, lovie. Kisses, your Mummy dearest." James ends the letter with a loud, slobbery, kiss and then the letter rips.

Sirius has his head in his arms and his shoulders bounce as he hyperventilates quietly while James looks extremely proud. Even Remus is wearing a shit-eating grin. When O'Conner looks at you all, his cheeks dusted pink from embarrassment and anger, James simply blows him a kiss and sends him the middle finger.

You laugh behind my hand, "Why did you guys do that?"

Sirius shrugged, "That bloke has always been an asshole,"

"And he was extremely disrespectful to you yesterday, Y/n/n." Remus points out, to which James nods as he eats a mouthful of scrambled eggs. You scrunch your nose at him and eat your toast. Occasionally, you'll look over at O'Conner, who looks absolutely infuriated as his friends tease him endlessly.

"Seeing his face turn that red was pretty satisfying." You point out.

"Anyways, he should have seen it coming. No one messes with my girl without consequences." He says it without a second thought and he doesn't even look phased. You on the other hand? You're extra aware of the dryness in your throat as you try and process what James so casually said. His girl? You look at Remus and then at Sirius almost for confirmation that he had indeed said it. They look a little unsure but more awkward than confused.

"Okay well, we have Potions. See you later." Sirius stands, looking at Remus and gestures for him to stand too, "Coming, Moons?"

Remus nods quickly and walks out behind him, leaving you and James alone.

You find it incredibly annoying how nonchalant James can be sometimes. "So, your girl, huh?" You ask, hesitantly.

James pauses and looks at you, something sparks in his eyes but it quickly dies as he bends his head and continues to eat, "Mmhm." His foot nudges yours a little, "You're our girl, and we take care of what's ours."

Your heart sinks. You don't want to be their girl. You want to be his girl. Instead of the girl he fucks in secret, you want to be the one he kissed sweetly in the hallway. You want to be more than just friends.

More than just fuck buddies.

"Oh." You say, your disappointment hidden behind a small smile and James perks up.

"Wanna ditch?" He asks with a smirk.

* * *

You and James like to play Wizard's Chess.

He's infamously bad at it which means you win everytime. Still, he always loses graciously and plays whenever you ask him.

You're sitting at the edge of the lake, the warm spring air hitting your skin, and the chess board Remus had gotten you for your sixteenth birthday sits in between you and James.

"Checkmate," You stick your tongue out at him as James groans.

James scrunches his brows and then, quite obviously, uses his knee to knock over the chessboard, "Oops." He laughs. You widen your eyes and try to push him on his shoulder but James just grips your wrist and pulls you into him.

He stumbles backwards until he's laying on the grass and you're hovering over him, sitting on his waist. You look at him, breathing heavily, and he looks at you.

You don't protest when James's hand curls around the back of your neck and he guides you down to kiss him. You melt into his arms. His hand finds your hair as he kisses you more passionately and for a moment you're content until James's other hand starts to tug at the buttons of your chemise. You tense and disconnect your lips, holding his hand away from your body.

"You ok?" He asks, sitting up and helping you sit in between his legs.

You can't look at him without feeling shame and embarrassment. Is this over? All because of your stupid feelings? You turn to him hesitantly and when you look at his lips, your heart hurts. Was this the last time you'll ever kiss him?

"Hey, love, what's wrong?" James asks, holding your cheeks in his hands and gently forcing you to look at him.

You shake your head and push him away, "James, no, you know I don't like it when you do that."

"Sorry," He whispers, his cheeks pink. You feel guilty.

"It's ok, Jamie. It's just," You rub your eyes and run a hand in your hair, probably messing it up, "I- I don't think I want to continue this. Us." You pause, "Not like this." You add in a whisper.

"What? Why?" James sounds confused and a little hurt, "Is it me? Have I not been good enough? I- I can learn, love." He stutters and you can't help but wonder why he's insisting so badly.

"No, you've been more than wonderful, James." You admit and then fiddle with your hands, "It's me,"

"Y/n, you're bloody fantastic." James interrupts, voice croaky.

You lower your eyes and smile softly, "No, it's because I think I've been falling in love with you." You say quietly and shut your eyes. You feel sick to your stomach.

James is not talking, he's not even moving anymore. You feel like you could vomit.

"You've been falling in love with me?" James asks.

Hearing those words, you quickly cover your face with your hands, "I- I'm sorry."

James takes your hands and gently moves them away from your face, "You're sorry?" You nod quickly and your heart pounds. Hope is a dangerous game, but James is smiling so maybe hope is worth the risk.

"Please don't be sorry, my love." James brings your palms to his lips and kisses your hand. His lips are light and shivers run up your arms, "I'm sorry. I have been such a fool." He leans his forehead on yours and suddenly, you feel lightheaded in a completely different way.

"James," You start but he interrupts you with a finger pressed to your lips.

"I didn't think you felt the same way as me," He chuckles, "I mean? Why would someone like you: someone so kind and honest, actually want more with someone like me? So, I was happy with our agreement because I still wanted to have you in any way I could. But, you love me? You really love me?" You nod and James's smile widens until it almost looks like it hurts him, "I've loved you since forever, Y/n/n, you can't even begin to imagine how happy you've made me."

"Really?" You ask.

James rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss you gently. He pulls away and smiles that grin you love so much, "I knew I wasn't as obvious as Remus and Sirius said I was." James teases and your eyes round as you lean away from him a little,

"Remus and Sirius know?"

James touches your cheek and looks at you fondly, "Yeah, about how madly in love with you I am, not our extracurricular activities." He jokes with a wink, "I think if I'd been honest to them about that, they would have warned me how dangerous it'll end up being for me, and in the end they would have been right."

You still feel like you're in a dream when you take his hand in yours and play with his fingers, "How's that, Jamie?" You whisper, simply enjoying the new found warmth in your stomach.

"Because it was absolutely torture to have you so close, and yet, so far away from me all the time." James says and you feel validated in your own feelings.

You nuzzles your head in his chest and wrap your arms around him,

"Well, you have me now." You reassure him. He sighs and holds the back of your head and for the first time, you have everything you want here in your arms. You smile against his chest, "Does this mean I can call you my boyfriend now when someone asks."

James huffs and kisses your head, "You better, love."

"And, am I your girl now?" You ask, more timidly now as you sit up and look him in the eyes. James’s hand runs along the grass as he smirks. You see him pluck a daisy from the ground and, as he places it behind your left ear, you feel your cheeks start to burn.

"You've always been my girl." He whispers and leans in to kiss you once more. You think he mumbles, "mine" against your lips again, but at that point you're too busy being lost in the moment.

And, frankly, you don't want to be found.

[santsukii]

oh, how i love you (yandere! stellaron hunters)

cw: all characters separate, spoilers for penacony quest, violence, yandere, stalking, obsession

currently listening to -> shut up, we don’t care - syris

KAFKA •

her love is something violent and horrific hidden behind a pretty mask. she knows she’s a beautiful woman, but she’s already got such a large bounty over her head that it barely matters to her anymore. what’s just one more kill to bring you closer to her? she’s a traditional type of yandere, obsessing over even the smallest detail related to you, memorizing everything from the exact tone of your hair and skin to every single reaction you’ve had to everything she’s ever said or done. everything you like or dislike, she has it memorized. she’d send gifts to your location, though deranged in nature. she’d send you severed and bloody, half rotted limbs torn from her victims with hearts carved in them and your initials together. she knows she’s dangerous, as if the multiple guns and katana she keeps on her person at all times wasn’t enough of an indicator of that. anyone she wants erased from the equation will be gone in an instant, and she would only hesitate for a second to betray her comrades for your sake.

BLADE •

oh, bladie. oh dear, sweet, bladie. how can someone possibly be even more violent than kafka? well, blade doesn’t even try to hide it. he relishes the fact that you’re scared of him, half the time he smiles at all is the deranged giggle he lets out as blood splatters all over his body and clothes. it would clot in his long hair, and he wouldn’t even bother to wash it out until it begins to rot. he doesn’t want to gross you out, just to remind you that you belong to HIM. someone talks to you for even just a little too long, they’ll be gone before the end of the day. he doesn’t enjoy killing in front of you, he doesn’t want his poor baby to see how violent he can get, but he at the very least implies such violent acts of love and passion to you with the blood on him. he’s a stoic man, but he still manages to smile every time he ends another life out of passion for you. he can’t die, so it’s not like it matters if you try to fight back. he will always be back, and you just can’t run from him.

SILVER WOLF •

she chooses the stalker, parasocial route. seeing as she’s a hacker who just views life as a game, this is no different. how much of your affection can she win? how long until you block one of her accounts, and how long until she just begins to stalk you from another one instead? everything from your social media accounts to your damn search history, she has access to it all, so don’t try posting for help because she’ll just delete it. you don’t know how she does it, every time you deactivate an account and make a new one to make it harder for her to find you, she always does. she’s saved all the pictures you post, hell, she’s even made alternate personas just to talk to you sometimes. it’s creepy. she gave up the act of pretending she didn’t always want to see you on her timeline pretty quickly when she realized her obsession with you.

FIREFLY •

to die three deaths is nothing compared to seeing you with someone who isn’t her. never again would she allow herself to be far from you, always only feet behind you in crowds even if you didn’t see her. if someone dares even look at you the wrong way, they can say goodbye to their life in a matter of seconds. such a sweet and innocent girl, never failing to keep her darling close no matter the consequence. don’t you understand, it’s only because she adores you with all she has. her fellow stellaron hunters will simply excuse her actions, chalking it up to a show of affection. once she has you in her arms, she is NEVER letting go. even if she has to be forceful with it, anything for you. absolutely anything. she would never reveal her true identity as a mech-girl to you, because that would only complicate things. as far as you know, your girlfriend is the only one around anymore because all your loved ones seem to just disappear after you talk to them.

[taskforce420]

tap out. simon 'ghost' riley

it didn't take a genius to know that simon riley, had been through hell. no family, close to no friends outside of his line of work. he was the shell of a man, a living ghost if you will; but people knew he was not one to be taunted or made fun of. sure he was a broken man, but he'd never take disrespect.

it did take a genius to know that you, had been through hell. no family, close to no friends outside of your line of work. you were quiet, always kept to yourself, never caused much trouble, unless you were on the field getting your hands dirty- bloody even. no one knew about your past, your story. but you liked it that way.

so, here you and ghost stood. arms behind your back, standing at ease, looking straight ahead.

as of right now, a common army tradition was ongoing, 'tap out' it was called, where the soldiers stood at ease as they waited for their loved ones to tap them out, letting them move, talk, interact with their family etc.

your gaze slowly shifted from the ground, to the families crying tears of happiness as they saw their son or daughter again after months or years of them being gone. mothers held their sons close to them, fathers cheered and praised their daughters for their accomplishments.

and you? well, you stood there, wishing to yourself, that maybe seeing your mother and father pass away was all a dream and that you'd see them walking over to you any minute, with wide smiles and excited cheers.

and ghost? well, he didn't care about the fact that no one was there to see him, to congratulate him; he cared that you, his closet friend since the beginning of training, was stood there. alone.

he didn't understand why, but he could probably guess. nonetheless, he watched as you uncomfortably shifted your weight from one foot to the other. he noticed you didn't want to be there, didn't want to have to listen to the laughs and 'hellos' of mothers and fathers.

ghost could relate, he let out a deep sigh; letting his arms drop to his side, he moved from his spot. he knew full well that he was breaking rules but as of now, he didn't care. not one bit. he walked over to you, eyes meeting with yours almost instantly.

"come on, luv." he said, as comforting as he possibly could. he raised his hand to your shoulder, officially tapping you out. he could see the hurt in your eyes.

"thanks, si" he nodded as you thanked him, he felt horrible knowing your pain.

you let your hands come to your sides, subconsciously, you started to fidget. your rough fingertips played with the hem of your t-shirt. "its not fair that they make us do this.." you said softly, head hanging low, watching your feet as you both walked back into the base, knowing you had nothing better to do.

"mhm" is all ghost said as he looked down at you, clearly seeing your defeated mood. "i wouldn't dwell on it, sweetheart. i know what your thinking" you nodded, not really bothered to speak. you appreciated ghost walking with you though, keeping you company.

"your family is here now, us, me...soap, gaz, price. the whole force, your brothers, your sisters" ghost spoke. you knew he was right, you got along incredibly well with the members of Task Force 141, there were many years full of core memories with the lot of them.

like the time when you and soap got bored one night so you snuck out of the base and found yourselves at a water bank, completely soaked from jumping in. you both laughed uncontrollably as you splashed one another.

or even when you and price sat in his office, having a deep conversation about previous missions, his past, life in general. you two agreed that you had bonded, ending the night with a simple hug.

or that time when you and gaz decided to go a nearby bar, its safe to say that you both got absolutely hammered from the mixed alcohol in your system. you laughed with one another as you stumbled back to base, holding onto one another. laughing even harder as price and soap caught you in your drunken state.

or...or even the time with ghost.

when you two lay on his dishevelled bed, your back to his chest, his arm lazily thrown around your waist, holding you against him for comfort. his hand traced the scars on your waist, your hips, your legs. you stared out the window, smiling to yourself. nothing serious had happened...you both just adored the company of one another, which is why you found yourself falling asleep to the feeling his breaths on your shoulder, and his hand caressing your skin. "you okay?" he had asked you, moving to lie on his back. you had turned to face him. smiling when you saw him already looking at you, his arm rest behind his head. "mhm, always" you had softly spoke.

you smiled to yourself as you finally walked into the base, simon still by your side. "yeah..you're right" you said looking up at the large man. he happened to look down at you, you swear you could see him smile beneath his mask.

"i know..."

lemme know if you guys would like a pt. 2 :)

[my-castles-crumbling]

poorly timed confession - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 344

It had been James's idea. The best birthday prank they'd ever come up with.

Ever since they'd started the tradition in first year, the goal was to one-up last year's prank, to embarrass the birthday boy even more. it was all in good fun, of course, and it often resulted in pink cheeks and fits of laughter, with stories told at parties for months after.

So, James 'borrowed' a vial of Regulus's own version of Veritaserum- a version, he assured the others, didn't force the drinker to admit to anything. Just made them a bit more loose-lipped and chatty, more willing to talk about things they maybe wanted to talk about but were afraid to admit.

Which was perfect, since Remus was commentating the Quidditch game that day.

It started off slow. As the game began, Remus talked easily about how he wished he could fly, but he was terrible at anything involving heights. How he'd tried to play Quidditch a few times, but ended up scoring on the wrong goal. Though Remus didn't seem to realize anything was wrong, a couple people in the crowd started giving him funny looks, but seemed to write it off as him being just a little chatty that day.

Until Sirius drew the attention of everyone watching. He whacked two bludgers at the opposing team in a matter of minutes, making everyone ooh and aah. Which, of course, Remus was supposed to comment on.

"And there goes Sirius Black, Gryffindor Beater, with a double-shot at two Ravenclaw Chasers. And bloody hell, he looks good in his kit, too. I'd love to get in his pants, look at him-" Remus prattled, not realizing what he said until McGonagall grabbed the microphone, looking scandalized.

The crowd burst into applause, James leading the catcalls from his own broom, grinning from ear-to-ear. But as he looked around to see Sirius's reaction, he almost cried with mirth-

Sirius, who was staring at Remus with a face red as a tomato, had flown right into one of the goalposts with a loud thud.

Thanks @beautyoftheships for the idea!

[fan-goddess]

hello!could you write a reaction to the dragon's house × !fem!reader, when she was flying over the sea with the dragon and one of the enemies was on the ship and shot from a crossbow.

(she and her dragon are alive but slightly injured)

Aegon,Aemond,Jacaerys Velaryon-romantic love

Alicent,Daemon,Rhaenyra,Helaena,Laenor Valeryon-platonic love

sorry if there are any mistakes! I hope everything is clear💝I've actually been thinking about this for a long time💥

HOTD characters reactions of when reader is hurt

The summary: The characters each find out during your usual flight around kingslanding that you were shot down by some people belonging to a certain group that hate the Targaryen traditions and believe it to be an abomination.

A/N: They’re all personalised and hopefully different backstories, but have given reader the same dragon in all of them as making dragons are hard. The wound is also pretty much same, but the severity is altered in some places. In the platonic ones I made reader call them mother or father, since I made them a parent. Some of these are very different as I expanded on some more and developed others. You can tell which.

This ain’t fully proofread we die like Luke!

Taglist: @valeskafics, @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee @targaryenbarbie

Warning: Wounds, various gore mentions, incest, kissing, tried to make it gender neutral and lack of descriptions but there are some scattered about! (if I miss any let me know)

Aegon Targaryen:

When Aegon heard the news from his mother who’d rushed to inform him of your sudden injury, he all but sprinted to the infirmary where you were being treated by one of the leading maesters.

“My love, are you alright?!? I am so sorry my love I should have insisted to accompany you! When I find the man who did this to you I shall rip off his head and feed his insides to Sunfyre and Shrykos!” He declares, the words tumbling quickly with how much rage flooded his body at the sight of your wounded self. You could barely keep up with him if you were being honest.

“Aegon, my sweet husband, it is fine! ‘Tis merely a flesh wound!” You insist, yet wincing as soon as the reassurance falls from your lips.

“And yet here you are heavily bleeding, and in very much pain! You should take some milk of the poppy!” Aegon says, looking around to find the bottle, even when you try and insist you were fine. “If you were fine you’d be with me, in our bed, safe and unharmed! So don’t argue with me wife or my wrath will be misguided!”

You merely humour him by sipping slightly at the small contents of the cup the maester had passed to you. Yet still, you can’t deny that the liquid had its desired effects, as your previously aching wound now significantly dulls down to a mere small throb once in a while.

“Now wife. Tell me who hurt you.” Aegon demands, his eyebrows furrowed and his grip tightened on your body as he insured you would be unable to get away from him.

“Just some idiotic men thinking themselves higher than us my love. They shot at me and Shrykos from their ship when we least expected it with bloody crossbones of all things, and somehow barely managed to skim us. Yet they somehow did not expect the very large dragon to get angry that their rider and themself was just attacked with no prior warning. Shrykos certainly made sure to enact on our lovely families motto. By the time she was done with them, there was nothing left but fire and blood sinking to the bottom of the sea.”

Aegons face slowly turns more and more relaxed, and by the end of your tale he’s practically grinning for joy as he kisses you deep on the lips. “That’s my bloodthirsty wife!” He mumbles against your lips, forgetting all about his past aggressions to make you feel as safe and as loved as you could be in his arms. The maester that continues to awkwardly stand their waiting to finish wrapping your arm be damned.

Aemond Targaryen:

He finds out before anyone else, as he tends to wait for you after your dragon rides if he’s unable to go with you that day. So when you come back later than usual with blood dripping down your arm and half an arrow sticking out of you, he certainly is very angry, and very much willing to get on Vhagar and hunt down and kill those who dared harm his wife. Yet he knows he must stay calm for you.

He notices how you try and mumble your dragons name under your breath, so when he makes it past one of the dragon keepers he makes sure to let them know that Shrykos may be in need of some healing. He assumes by the way your mumbles quieten after he says the order that that was what you were trying to tell him. Yet when he actually looks at you Aemond quickly realises you’ve actually fainted from blood loss.

Aemond rushes you to the Maesters room where he insists only the best work on you, even though he couldn’t afford to be picky what with you bleeding out in his arms and all. Though after a few threats and lot of claims regarding his dragon, the maesters quickly manage to remove the arrow and stem the bleeding whilst you continued to lay unconscious on the healing bed. Aemond stayed by your side the entire time, holding your hand tightly in an act of reassurance. Even though you were still unconscious.

He stayed with you the entire time though. Still holding your hand even when he fell asleep. When you eventually woke, three days after you were injured, Aemond was sure to reassure you that you were safe. Even though by the tenth time you were very ready to smack him.

“Tell me ābrazȳrys who did this too you. Vhagar has been ready for the taste of flesh since I found you. I am sure Shrykos too is ready for the thrill of the chase of those who harmed both her and her rider. Tell me, so I can make sure we can tear them limb from limb.” His words drip malice, and yet there is distinct comfort within them. Aemond has never truly been able to show his affection towards you with displays of anything other than action. And in this moment, it just so happens that action involves heavy bloodshed and possible carnage.

“Those men who hale from the vale. The ones claiming our traditions to be an abomination. A sin in the eyes of the seven. They surprised me and Shrykos as we flew above the seas and got some good strikes. But don’t worry ñuha jorrāelagon. Me and Shrykos made sure to burn them to blood and ash before we needed to flee back to kingslanding.” You attempt to smile to reassure your husband, but if anything it appears to make it worse as you wince at the pain suddenly flaring through your whole right arm.

Aemond stays quiet as he makes sure to force you to drink some milk of the poppy.

“Ābrazȳrys. If you were to die, I would have gone to the brink of insanity. I would’ve gone to those peoples homes and burned them all to the ground for what they have done to my wife. To the future mother of my children. They have harmed you though. The have scarred you. And for that offence alone, I cannot allow them a single more moments of breath. I cannot allow them to live.” Aemond storms off leaving you laying there in half shock and half admiration. You knew he would be true to his word. Which is why when not even a day had passed since Aemond had left, you’d heard whispers of what Aemond had done, and you smiled and thanked the gods for a husband like yours.

Jacaerys Velaryon:

If there was one characteristic you could say your husband embodied to the fullest, it would be loyalty. As no matter how many other women, maids and nobility alike, threw themselves at the future heirs feet he always ran back to you.

Even when other men such as the Lannister’s attempted to charm you with their admittedly horrible, yet according to them successful attempts, Jace was always there with a watchful eye, making sure all knew who you belonged too.

He was protective too. A dragon while not in appearance but definitely in spirit. Jace would always find a way to make sure you were safest whether you wanted him to be involved or not. Even this noon when you wanted to get one last dragon ride before dinner, Jace still insisted there was no need. Yet your stubbornness knew no bounds it seems, as while his back was turned you made quick speed to where Shrykos usually slept and flew her into the great distance. A mere speck in the sky before Jace knew what had happened.

You had started the flight laughing with the biggest grin on your face, eager to see the sights from the sky. Yet of course things turned worse as men from one of the many religious groups of the seven kingdoms took notice of you and your dragon, and decided to shoot you with their admittedly massive weapons.

You dodged the best you could, and yet with a scream from both you and Shrykos, you realised you were both hit.

“DRACARYS SHRYKOS! DRACARYS!” You screamed, satisfied when you hear the hells and the screams of the men and the ships bellow. With your good arm, you steer Shrykos to the direction of dragonstone and order the instructions, before all appears to go dark.

When you wake, all seems strangely normal. That is of course, before you see the giant bandaged wound that is your arm. You can see a hint of red peeking from the bandages and are about to see if you could rewrap it, before Jacaerys comes through and with wide eyes realises you are awake and well as you can be.

“My love!” He shouts, running over and encasing you in his arms. Not hearing the low hiss you make when his hands clasp around your still admittedly sore arm. “Where have you been!? You’re hurt!” He yells, finally taking noticing your blood that steadily pools to the surface. “Let us get you to the maesters!”

As much as it hurt you to have Jace pull you like he did, you merely let it all happen so not to cause an event bigger fuss of you than what he already is making. Yet when you get to the maesters chambers and nearly find yourself fainting, that’s when you suddenly understand your husbands worry.

When you wake up though, it’s the feeling of Jaces familiar warmth that settles you as you gaze on his sleeping form. Yet as you wake, so does he it seems. As not even a few minutes after you’ve woken Jace is quick to rise with you. His eyes wide and worried as they roam you for anymore possible injuries you may possibly somehow have hidden.

“Are you alright my love?!” He asks, his eyes still roaming for even a moment of weakness from you. “There maesters took care of your arm and the arrow. And I heard word from the dragon keepers who tell me Shrykos is healing dutifully from his wounds!”

“Good.” You simply say, hissing slightly as you sit up and try to keep yourself grounded. “I’d kill then if she wasn’t.”

Jacaerys laughs at your threat, and his face looks almost serene as he just looks at you. His eyes going soft as his hands continue to hold yours. It’d be an almost affectionate moment had it not been for the sudden flare up of pain in your arm.

“Fuck!” You yell, hissing once again as you’re reminded of why you’re even in the maesters room in the first place. “It is alright husband I’m fine!” You insist seeing the worry now marking his face.

“I will worry when I want.” He simply says, kissing you on the top of your head before moving to sit next to you on the bed. His head resting on yours as he puts his arms around you. Your eyes shutting as a sudden hit of exhaustion hits you, yet you welcome it fully as Jaces arms feel just so welcoming and calming.

Alicent Hightower:

Alicent had always been like a mother to you. Caring for you when you were sick and making sure that you were always in your highest possible health. It was probably why she’d insisted since you were young to fully call her mother, even though you were not biologically related to her.

Whenever she heard about even the slightest of injuries though, she always worried relentlessly about the damage. Which is why when you appeared before her clutching a bleeding wound from your shoulder, you’re quite honestly surprised she hadn’t dropped from shock.

“Oh my darling what has happened?!” She’d gasped, frozen in shock as she stood there not knowing what really to do.

“Bastards on their boats took a few shots at me and Shrykos whilst we were on our morn flight. They got two good shots at us to hurt us but don’t worry. Before we got here Shrykos managed to give them what was coming for them…” You groan, holding your shoulder in your hand that has now from the lack of adrenaline, has begun aching dramatically.

“Oh never mind the men I care only about you!” She fusses, coming closer before stopping half way, staring between your shoulder and your pained face. Maybe Alicent will drop from shock after all.

“SOMEBODY GET THE MAESTERS!” You hear a voice yell, before all appears to go dark before your eyes. When you wake though, it is as if the light is blinding you. You blink a few times to ground yourself, and it’s with a sudden surprise you realise that you feel a familiar warmth on your hand. You turn your head slightly, stiff from the lack of movement you think, and realise Alicent is staring at you with great worry on her face.

“Are you feeling alright my darling? The maesters have cleaned and sewed up your wound, but according to them it shall take a while for it to fully heal. You must tell me dear girl, in detail, what happened out there. What did those people do to you?”

“After me and Shrykos took off, we flew to the stormlands. We were drifting round shipbreaker bay, when those men the council warned us over took notice. Crossbows the size of my arm began shooting at us mother, so I am grateful they managed to get me and Shrykos only once.” At the mention of your dragon, your face turns to worry. Yet before you say anything, your mother quickly moves to interrupt you.

“Your dragon is safe my love. The dragon keepers have been keeping me up to date on her healing, and she is steadily heading to full recovery. The arrow has been removed fully, and the wound has stopped bleeding.” She says, her face betraying her as she is unable to hide her distaste of your dragon.

“Thank you mother, I appreciate the consideration. I know you have no love for Shrykos, nor any of your children’s dragons.” You say, your honesty true as you smile in thanks and understanding.

“You’re welcome my heart…” Your mother smiles, her hand reaching out to hold yours. Which while you admittedly want to shy away from, yet you push through your discomfort to allow your mother this moment that you know your adoptive sister would not have allowed.

“I do not want you to fly unaccompanied anymore my heart,” Alicent begins, shushing your with a single movement when she sees you about to harshly protest. “I have discussed this with your brothers and sister, and they have all agreed. Aemond has already taken the duty on his ever eager shoulders, and has said he will ride with you tomorrow morn at your usual time. It may be in your best interest to thank him next time you see him.”

“Of course mother…” You sigh, already dreading Aemonds smug face and wanting to punch it. Yet you withhold yourself from groaning out loud only from your mother’s sake, who is still holding your hand with intended comfort, even though she is doing nothing but make your blood pump fast around your body. Still, you say nothing. Allowing her to believe she is comforting you with a motherly smile on her face.

Daemon Targaryen:

Daemon had always possessed an amusingly short temper. It was especially tested though whenever it regarded to you. Whenever you got yourself hurt as a child, whether than was to do with training or just an accident in the halls, he always demanded to know the man behind your pain. It’s why you weren’t at all surprised when he reacted that same way when you flew back to Dragonstone and stumbled towards him with an arrow stuck in your shoulder blade.

“Who has dared to harm you zaldritzos? Tell me so I can show them what the exact consequence is for messing with a dragon. I am sure caraxes is already fuelled with my anger alone and is ready to face those who dares spill such precious blood.” Daemon snarls, his face unable to hide its anger as he holds your body steady so it won’t suddenly collapse.

“Bastards from the bloody ships on the bloody sea. Got us good… got us good…” You slur, every word feeling forced from your very gut as your eyes grow heavier and heavier.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes zaldritzos! Don’t you fucking close them!” You hear him snarl once more. But still, you cannot resist the temptation of sleep as you disobey your father and close your eyes.

When you find yourself waking, it is Daemon is standing by you while you slept. His eyes hard and stern as they observe you.

“I suppose you’re mad?” You can’t help but say. Your face admittedly ashamed as you stare to the floor, unable to hold his stare.

“Of course I am mad!” He yelled, refusing to allow you to turn your head away as he forces you to make eye contact with him. “My daughter has gone out without telling me, and she has gotten herself hurt the same way soldiers are hurt in wars!”

“I am sorry father!” You say, tears brimming in your eyes as the disappointed and anger shines through his. “I cannot control where those bastard men sail-“

“But you can control where you fly!” Daemon yells back. His voice rough and frustrated as the inner dragon inside him comes out. “I have taught you better than this zaldritzos! I have been teaching you how to ride that dragon of yours since you were a mere child! So why was it you were no doubt flailing about the sky like an amateur, when I know you could have done better?!”

“I’M NOT LIKE YOU!” You shout, shoving your father away as he stares at you with an expressionless face. “I am not a great leader, or a great dragon rider! I am still learning father! My lessons have not yet stopped being taught! Those men on the ships who shot at us were the ones you had warned us about. The ones claiming our great traditions to be an abomination and deserving of punishment. Me and Shrykos did not know their affiliation as we flew above them. Only when the arrows began to fly for our heads did we realise… I got an arrow in the shoulder, which has now since been removed. Shrykos though listened perfectly and managed to get out of there without any particularly damaging wounds. Still, my anger shon through her, and we managed to light the whole of the fleet up in flames before we flew back home. Where of course, you found me…”

Daemon is silent throughout your rant, yet by the end, when you’re breathless with how quickly you spoke, his hand is placed on your non-injured arm in an unfamiliarly comforting manner.

“I know you are not like me zaldritzos. While I have made you in my image, I hardly expected it to be your only outcome. You have become strong. You have become a fearsome warrior able to bring honour to our family name and our ancestors. I suppose… I may have forgotten that I too have made mistakes. I am sorry zaldritzos…”

The tears that had brimmed earlier in your eyes now tear down your face now that you hear your fathers words. His pride. So you do the only thing you can think of at that moment to show your appreciation. You take your arms and place them around Daemons waist, pulling him into a hug where your head is against his chest. Thankfully his arms seem to automatically go around your own body, and you can’t help but find this act comforting and safe.

“Thank you…” You can’t help but murmur.

“I would never let anything hurt you…” He murmurs back. Words which to anyone else may sound meaningless, but to you, you know they hide your father’s true feeling of care.

Rhaenyra Targaryen:

Rhaenyra had always been a sort of mother to you. A light to guide you in the darkest of your days. Whenever you took ill or had an injury, it was always she who stood by your bed, holding your hand in her own. Even though both husbands and loyal guards warned her of her possibly falling ill herself. Not that she ever did somehow though.

It was like that now. That afternoon, you had decided on a whim to take Shrykos on a fight around the coasts bordering the land surrounding Dragonstone. Yet it seems you coincidentally forgot Daemons talk about the rising threat of a religious group following faithfully the followings of the seven, as you tried to fly past them calmly and peacefully. Shrieking in fear when you realise it was not a harmless fly that flew past your face just now, but a very deadly steel-tipped arrow.

You barely made it out of there alive. The only injuries you yourself sustaining being a few arrow nicks on your shoulders, and the worse of it being a shallow puncture from one of the few successful shots. Shrykos though took most of the hits. Her rage seething the more those pathetic men tried to harm both her and her rider. It was quite satisfying you must say, when you flew away with the fresh smell of burning corpses still behind you, lingering on your clothes.

Yet when you got back home and were standing in front of your mother, that satisfaction quickly changed to a strange sort of guilt when you see her horror struck face.

“What has happened my darling!” She tells, taking ahold of your arm to look at your injury while you yell at her to try and say you were fine, even though you wince as soon as she yanks you towards her.

“Bloody men on the coast of Gull Town decided to shoot at us from their fucking boats. They got only a few good shots before Shrykos managed to get to them. By the time we left, we ensured they became fire and ash. I doubt there are any men alive after that….” You say, barely able to stand as the sudden blood loss reaches you.

You’re barely able to think as your mother brings you to the castle hanging on her shoulder. Soon, maesters surround you whilst your mother fusses by your bed to the left of you. She insists and demands certain things, but by the end, your grateful to feel the pain in your arm significantly lessen not only due to the lack of wooden arrow, but also due to the large amount of milk of the poppy that was pretty much forced down your throat.

“Is it all better now my darling?” Your mother asks, putting your hand between her own to soothe you as if you were a small child who’d scuffed their leg falling on some loose gravel.

“It is fine mother!” You insist. Even smiling as you play the part of the healthy child, able to bounce back from any injuries. Yet somehow she can still manage to see through your facade.

“Are you sure?” She asks again. Her brow raised in questioning as she makes you feel like a young child again. Small, and helpless as you cry to mother.

“Yes I am fine!” You firmly say, taking your hand from hers and placing it on the cold clinical bed sheets. Already missing the familial warmth your mother’s hands had provided you with. “I do not need you pressing!”

“Okay my love. I believe you.” Rhaenyra smiles, acknowledging her child’s want for independence. Moving from the chair she previously had sat on so she can place a quick kiss to the top of your head and smile fondly at the way your nose scrunches. “I will leave you now my love. The maesters had said you’ll fully heal by the moons next turn, but you’re fit to leave the bed tomorrow morn. I’ll visit you then.”

As quick as Rhaenyra leaves, you find yourself already wanting her motherly touch to tell you it’s okay. Your legs tucking under your chin as you hold yourself under the covers, letting your eyes shut so hopefully you’re able to wake up tomorrow by your mother’s voice.

Helaena Targaryen:

Compared to all your other family members, it has always been Helaena you were closest too. A close bond forging between the two of you since girlhood that not once has ever been broken.

You were with her when she claimed Dreamfyre, just as she was there for you when you claimed Shrykos. You also made sure to try and be with her whenever she experienced one of her, moments.

Yet that morning, you were way too busy trying to get ready for your usual morn flight to be with her when she took what the queen would call, a funny turn.

‘Blood of the dragon lost twice over. Beware the boats from bellow filled with men of hate.’

She’d seen your injury and the fire coming from your dragons mouth, and being the anxious person she was, she waited at the dragon keeps entrance with her hands fiddling with each other.

When you fly in holding your arm to try and stem the blood, getting off with difficultly as you try and not fall, you almost scare yourself when you turn and suddenly find yourself face to face with Helaena, who holds a bandage ready to treat you with it.

“Give me your arm…” She softly asks, waiting for you to release your arm from your grip so she can slowly and carefully take the arrow from your arm, choosing to ignore your vocal cries of pain so she can make sure to get the arrow out. When she does, she chooses to just drop the bloody wooden chunk to the floor so she can quickly wrap your now gushing wound, which she cleans with a slightly damp clothe that can’t have been out of the water bowl for long.

“What happened?” She asked while she cleaned your red streaked arm.

“Do you remember those men Aemond warned us about? The ones who hate us for our heritage?” You ask, waiting to hear Helaena unique hum to show she’s truly listening. “Well when I was flying by Tarth, those men were in there boats and obviously spotted me before I spotted them. So they shot at me till they hit me.” You shrug, regretting it soon as you did as you hiss at the sudden flare up of pain.

“It’ll hurt badly. I didn’t manage to take any milk of the poppy from the maesters, so we’ll probably need to visit them soon.” Helaena simply says, giving you a smile before she takes your hand in her own. An act you cannot say in words how much it means to you, given how you know of her usual revulsion for physical touch.

So you stay silent. Allowing her to lead you to the maesters with a small smile on your face, that is wiped right off when you become face to face with them. They stare at your with judgement and soulless eyes as they remove you from Helaenas comforting warmth and instead force you to feel cold metal against your flesh. They ignore you as they unwrap the bandages. Only giving each other looks as they wordlessly judge the state of your body.

It almost makes you want to tear their heads from their bodies and feed them to Shrykos. Who no doubt is feeling your frustrations and anger down in the dragon pit.

Yet you hold your tongue for Helaenas sake, who is watching the maesters take supposed special care of you from the corner of the room. She gives you small smiles whenever you make eye contact, and it’s only with them you manage to pull through. The milk of the puppy though they force down your throat certainly makes you more cooperative though you must say.

“Thank you Hel, for looking after me.” You say, staring at her as soon as the maesters deemed you healed enough and left you. No doing to go get the queen to inform her of your sudden injury.

“It is no problem…” She softly smiles back, moving forward to stand next to you so she can hold your hand in her own. Her soft flesh relaxing you possibly even more than the drugs flowing through your system. “I will always be there for you…”

Laenor Valeryon:

Even though you always knew that Laenor could never truly be your father, he nonetheless always managed to act like one better than anyone. While your mother was busy attending to your brothers, it was Laenor who was always busy attending to you, making sure you were fussed in a way a princess should be fussed.

He always made sure to give you the bestest care a princess may need it. Like right now for instance.

“I NEED A MAESTER RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” You remember your father screaming while your vision slowly began to blur in a variety of difference places. “Where are you hurt ñuha nūmio? Where is the pain? What can I do?”

“Arrow in the fucking shoulder.” You groan, bile building in your throat as you resist the urge to vomit. “Only there father. Shrykos was hit too. Fuck it hurts so much…”

“Do not worry dear girl! The maester will come!” As he says this, guards come running with a maester in tow. The guards take ahold of you carefully as you nearly collapse under the sudden blood rush. The maester barking orders for what to do to you to cause the least amount of damage to your body as possible.

When you get to the healing room, you’re placed roughly onto a bed where now a whole group of maesters now flock to you like a group of crows over a fresh carcass. They all say a different method on how to treat you, yet it’s Laenor whose voice shines louder than them all.

“You will not cut up or harm my daughter!” He yells, his voice firm and harsh as he glares at them all. “You will take out that fucking arrow, and you will heal her. Or I swear, as the heir of the realms husband, I’ll make all of you fucking regret it!”

All is silent, and yet with a firm glare they all scatter to complete your father’s order. Soon, cloth is finding its way in your mouth to quench your screams as hands force the arrow once imbedded in your arm is forced onto a silver plate. Blood gushing down your arm in an admittedly disturbing manner.

By the end, there is an elder looking maester stitching up your blood coated arm, and an arrow head and some wood pieces. Laenor held your hand with every scream and every clench of your body. He made sure you felt as safe as you could in the presence of the same type of men who killed your aunt. He also made sure to quickly push them out as soon as they were done with there work. Nodding along in a dismissive manner as they insist they are still needed.

When they are eventually shushed away however, with the door shut quickly behind them, Laenor quickly finds himself by your side again. His hand laced firmly in yours as he takes a lone damp cloth so he can clean away the dried blood still decorating your wounded flesh.

“Does it hurt much? I can always call a maid to fetch you some milk of the poppy?” Laenor insisted, his touch delicate as he makes sure not to harm you in any way.

“It merely stings…” You shrug, wincing though soon as you do due to the sudden flare up in your shoulder. “I do not need any milk of the poppy father. I can manage my pain.”

“I can see that…” He grins, even chuckling when he sees your own smile. “Though, I must ask. What happened? You did not exactly give me much information before the maesters came for us.”

“Me and Shrykos began our normal journey to the direction of Runestone. But on the coast of Gull town, it appears those men mother had recently warned us about, the ones who deem our customs immoral and a disgrace to a seven, spotted us before we spotted them. They took no time before they were shooting at us with giant crossbows on their ship. They took us by surprise, and managed to get only a single time, but that was enough to enact Shrykos’ rage. I didn’t even say the command father! Shrykos enacted our joined rage and set fire to their ships and their bodies. If they weren’t dead by the time we left, I am almost sure they are all at least dead by now.”

He takes in your words carefully. Murmuring small words every so often while he holds your hand as a sigh of sympathy. When your done though, his face is smeared in deep anger. A hatred you have never seen your father show ever before in your lifetime.

“Well it’s a good think they are dead though,” He finally says, snapping from his thoughts with a huff. “Because if they were alive, Seasmoke would be gorging on a feast right now!”

“Thank you father…” You simply say, falling into his arms that welcome you immediately. You close your eyes and allow yourself to bask in his familiar comforting warmth.

[skippudippu]

this is really inspired by a post someone else made but I can’t find it rn 😭😭 but hear me out okay

yes lisa frankenstein is a campy silly funny slasher romcom, and I ADORE it for that. but I’ve been thinking abt how it comments on the way society treats people with trauma, especially women, especially in past decades. the three major women each demonstrate different effects of that.

Lisa is the most obvious — we know what happened to her mom, and we see how everyone feels about her. hell, she tells us. nobody cares about her healing, they just want her to move on. (this also ties into themes of the original Frankenstein story; he wasn’t a monster, but everyone treated him like he was, so he became one.) instead of helping her, everyone others Lisa because she does not hide her pain, nor the effects that pain has had on her. so she becomes the dangerous freak everyone made her out to be.

then we have Janet — Janet, whose father died in the Vietnam war, who appears to have ignored her trauma exactly the way society wanted her to. she buried her pain in order to fit into traditional feminine roles: she’s a mother, she keeps up her home, she’s thin and made-up and absolutely drenched in feminine colors and silhouettes. but the unchecked trauma ate her up inside, and it made her into an antagonist. she became the very sort of person that contributed to her own suffering. she’s perpetuating a vile cycle.

and finally, there’s Taffy, who naturally checks every box on the ‘traditional femininity’ checklist. social and bright and pretty. a cheerleader, a party girl, toeing the line between fitting in and being memorable. she’s never experienced the kinds of struggle that Janet or Lisa did — until the end of the movie. that shot of the man in the car looking at her, beaten and bloody and scared out of her mind. and he drives away without a word. the minute she has a big, ugly problem? she’s dismissed. she’s othered, the same way that Lisa was.

but in Taffy’s final scene, she’s visiting Lisa’s grave. she wears the rosary, a symbol of her otherness. her dress is a feminine cut, and it’s black w pink flowers. she has just been a victim of events scarily similar to Lisa: her mother was killed by a frankenstein, she witnessed death, she was subsequently dismissed for her trauma. but I have to hope that this symbolizes the difference between Taffy and Lisa/Janet; that she’ll break the cycle; that she’ll be able to address her suffering while reclaiming her femininity.

[cherienymphe]

Basic Training XI (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @whimsicalrogers​

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

~

You felt like you were on the verge of a panic attack. Your breathing was shaky and far too heavy, and your chest felt way too tight. The air on your face felt much cooler from the tears that soaked your skin, and you swore that you felt the sheets rip beneath your fingers. You knew for a fact that your other hand was pressing into Peter’s arm so hard that it drew blood.

He didn’t seem to mind though.

Peter was way more preoccupied with the feel of you. Through a tearful gaze, you watched him throw his head back, eyes fluttering shut as he slowly inhaled. You couldn’t stop trembling, half in disbelief and half wanting to rip your hair out. The feel of Peter’s cock inside of you had lessened to a dull pulsing feeling between your legs, and when you shifted, you both hissed.

…but for different reasons.

When Peter finally opened his eyes, he lowered his head to gaze at you. You didn’t know what you looked like, but you had a feeling that your expression reflected what you felt inside. Peter’s expression fell some, and he blinked at you, frowning slightly before leaning down to brush his lips over yours.

“You’re okay,” he softly told you. “You’re okay.”

“No,” you finally choked out, finding your voice after some time. “I’m not.”

You dug your nails harder into his skin, not out of malice, but more so as a means to ground yourself. To hold onto something, because you felt completely out of control, like you were floating aimlessly, and the thought made more tears escape.

“Peter, please stop,” you shakily breathed, your gaze pleading as you looked into his dark eyes. “Please…”

You let the sheets go to press your hand into his chest, pushing hard, but he wouldn’t budge. Instead, he gripped your wrist, briefly squeezing it before gently pinning it to the bed. He leaned in some more, the action causing his hips to move just a tad, and you were suddenly strongly reminded of the presence of him inside of you.

You pressed your lips together, a whine escaping as you drew more blood. Peter hissed at the action, but he didn’t seem all that upset. When you looked closely enough, you could see the ghost of a smile on his pink lips, and he gently pressed his forehead to yours. His breathing was loud in your ear, and Peter briefly closed his eyes.

“I really wanted this day to be a happy one for you,” he slowly told you, sounding almost…disappointed. “It should be, after all.”

Peter leaned in to kiss your trembling lips again.

“Steve can be an asshole, sometimes…but I won’t let him ruin this.”

He kissed along your jaw and towards your neck, and you didn’t know how to tell him that he was making this day worse. The feel of him on you, in you, was making you emotional beyond comprehension. When Peter kissed you again, he slowly pulled his hips back, making you sharply gasp, and you hated the way your hips lifted too…like he was pulling you with him, attached by a string.

When he drove himself into you again, torturously slow, you dragged your nails down his arm. You could feel yourself leaving bloody streaks with the action, and Peter only groaned. You didn’t know if it was from that or from the feel of you wrapped tightly around him. He was so quiet for a while at first, just slowly pushing into you and fully immersing himself in what you felt like.

However, once your lack of reaction became apparent, that changed.

“Open up for me, pretty girl,” he murmured, letting your wrist go to reach down and rest his hand on your thigh.

He pushed on it, making your legs widen, and you couldn’t swallow down your sharp exhale. Peter completely ignored your hands on him as you tried to push him away, curving his hips into yours and stretching you out with every thrust. Every push of his cock became easier and smoother than the last, and you hated it.

At least, you thought you did.

You didn’t like that Peter was on top of you, trapping you between his body and the bed. You didn’t like that your senses were completely invaded by the smell and feel and sound of him. You hated that he was inside of you, his cock pushing into you and stroking your walls in a way that made you shudder. You hated it, and yet you couldn’t ignore the heat that settled deep in the pit of your gut.

You told yourself that it was your body’s natural reaction. As much as you liked to think you were so far removed from your baser instinct, you were an animal. A homo sapiens, but an animal nonetheless, and your body was going to react to certain things no matter how you personally felt. That was easy enough to accept and tell yourself, but when Peter ran his hand up your stomach, fingers gliding between your breasts, you couldn’t hold in your whimper.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” Peter whispered. “Perfect. Like you were made for me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, and Peter tutted.

“No, no, don’t do that,” he softly pleaded. “Let me see you…”

He plunged into you with a particularly hard thrust, holding himself there as your back arched.

“Please,” he begged. “Show me those pretty eyes.”

His hand was on your face, thumb softly brushing over your cheek, wiping away a few stray tears. You pressed your face into his shoulder, hiding from him as he continued to fuck you. Your hand clutched his back, and for some reason, his gentle and loving words made you cry harder. Maybe you wanted him to be mean? Cruel? Although, you supposed that he was already being that, wasn’t he? Perhaps you wanted him to be more like Steve that day in the yard.

The sight of his rough movements and Margaret was burned into your brain. It was a memory that struck you frozen and cold with fear, but at least if Peter was like that, it would be so much easier to hate him. You didn’t want him to be gentle with you, his touch almost loving in nature like you were some couple making love after a day apart.

You hated that it was making you feel good, driving you towards the edge.

You’d stopped crying, a little too horrified with what you felt happening. You could feel that familiar coil tighten in your stomach, strings attached to it that pulled at every nerve in your body. Your breathing started to hitch, and when Peter’s hand slid to your neck, he pushed you back down onto the bed, preventing you from hiding your face. On instinct, your hands reached up, clasping onto his wrist, and your eyes flew open.

Your tearful eyes met his enraptured ones, and Peter couldn’t take his eyes off of you. It was like he didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to miss a single expression on your face as he brought his tongue between his lips. He was slow to sheath himself inside of you again and again, and when you lifted your hips, your entire body tensing up, he sighed, pulling his lip between his teeth.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let go, pretty girl. Let go.”

You didn’t want to, fighting it and trying to starve it off for as long as you could.

Peter could tell.

“Nuh uh,” he breathed. “None of that…”

“Peter,” you murmured, almost pleadingly.

“No, no, let go,” he urged, hand tightening on your throat. “Relax and let go. It’s okay.”

You pressed a hand to his lower stomach, trying to stop his thrusts, and Peter mirrored you, pressing his own hand into your stomach hard and making you gasp. You could feel yourself tensing more, seizing up and gasping for breath as your orgasm crawled over you, slowly filling you and taking control until you were a whimpering mess beneath him.

“Good girl,” he quietly drawled. “Look at you…doing so good for me.”

His hand was still on your throat, squeezing and holding you in place while you rode out your climax underneath him, clenching down onto him.

“Just like that,” you heard him say. “Deep breaths…”

When the stars behind your eyes started to fade, Peter finally came back into focus. He was still lazily thrusting into you, fucking you through it, and when he slowed to a stop, you realized that he hadn’t come, at all. He was still hard when he pulled out of you, and the feel made you shudder. You kept your gaze on the ceiling as he kissed you, slow and long, before finally pulling away.

Absentmindedly, you could hear him going into the bathroom, and it wasn’t long before the sound of running water reached your ears. He wasn’t inside of you anymore, but you swore you could still feel him there, still feel that dull ache of his cock in you. You only just realized how cold you felt despite the light sheen of sweat that coated your skin. You shakily reached up, hands covering yourself just as Peter returned.

He was gentle in grabbing them, pulling you to your feet, and you closed your eyes when he pressed his lips to your forehead. Peter wrapped his arms around you as he guided you into the bathroom, and you felt so removed from your body as he pressed his chest to your back. You’d crossed the inevitable line with Peter, and you didn’t know how to feel about it.

“Easy,” he warned, helping you into the bathtub, the hot water jolting you back into reality. “It’s hot.”

You clung to the arm that was around you as he lowered you both into the water. It had the strong scent of oils and soap, and Peter forced you to lean your head back against his shoulder. You were all too aware of his naked body against your equally naked one, hands running over you as he grabbed the loofah. The memory of him inside of you made you tremble, but his soft touch as he cleaned the sweat from your body had the opposite effect.

You could feel Peter pressing his face into your hair as he cleaned you, almost inaudible praises leaving his lips.

“You were so good…you know that?”

You didn’t respond, watching him clean the inside of your thighs.

“You felt better than I even imagined.”

You got the feeling that you were supposed to be flattered.

…but all you wanted to do was cry.

So, you did.

Peter hummed at the sound, pulling you closer and making soft shushing noises.

“I know,” he softly comforted you.

Hot water dripped over your skin as he squeezed the loofah.

“It’s okay to feel good, Y/N…to let me make you feel good,” he continued. “You’re mine, after all, and I take good care of everything that belongs to me.”

Those words caused an internal conflict within you, torn between a deep sense of shame and disgust…and a small sliver of relief. Peter would take care of you. He’d said that many times, including now, and there was something in you that just wanted to let him. After all, he protected you from Steve, and, as the blond had so eloquently pointed out, held your hand through this entire ordeal.

It would be favorable if he wasn’t the reason you were here to begin with.

“Didn’t I take good care of you…?” he wondered, voice lowering. “Hmm?”

You nodded when he pressed you for an answer, your cheek resting on his chest as you turned your head. Peter held you to him, playing with your hair, and when he spoke again, you shuddered.

“Things will be so much easier for you when you let me.”

When…not if. The distinction made your heart sink, because as much as you wanted to deny it, you knew it was only a matter of when, not if, and you blinked as a few more tears escaped. Peter squeezed more water onto you, and when his free hand tilted your chin up, you knew that he wanted a kiss.

When you woke up, the feel of fingertips dragging over the skin of your back was the only thing you could focus on. It was a soothing feeling, something that almost lulled you back to sleep, but the knowledge of who the hand belonged to prevented you from doing so. A shudder traveled down your spine, and he hummed.

Peter fucked you well into the night. After he’d pulled you from the water, he’d pulled you into another kiss, and the water on your skin dampened the bed when he laid you down. Peter was determined to taste every part of you, and you would’ve thought that he didn’t have the rest of your lives to do that. It overwhelmed you, forcing you to freeze up several times as he covered your mouth with his own.

In the rare moments that panic broke through, forcing you to cry and fight against him, Peter was calm in holding you down until you quieted. He seemed to have an abundance of patience as he held himself inside of you, watching you cry and waiting for it to be over. When he finally did come inside of you, you’d been coming undone beneath him for the third time. His fingers had been threaded with yours, holding them down as his teeth scraped along your neck.

The sounds that left him were animalistic, a stark contrast from the words he murmured moments later.

“My pretty girl,” he’d whispered. “All mine.”

It was so confusing to be comforted and looked after by the same hands that held you down. It was mind bending to cry as Peter forced pleasure on you, and then to cry some more as he held you and stroked your face. He was your source of torment and also your only source of comfort. Who else would you cry to if not him? Who else would you safely and comfortably confide in if not him?

The feel of lips on the side of your face pulled you from your thoughts, and you slowly blinked. Your entire body ached, and even if you wanted to move, you didn’t think that you could. He brushed his lips over your temple and then your cheek and jaw before they finally grazed the corner of your mouth. You could feel his hand kneading into your waist through the sheet.

You didn’t even know what time it was, and faintly, you wondered about breakfast.

As if your mind had decided to bring your thoughts to life, there was a knock on the door. The sound of it made you jump, and you looked towards the door with wide eyes as if somehow knowing exactly who was on the other side. Peter noticed your discomfort, softly shushing you and rubbing your arm as he sat up. When he made his way towards the door, more decent, now, you blanched at the sight of his back.

You hadn’t remembered doing that, at all, and your eyes drifted to your fingernails…and the slight dried blood beneath them.

“Is there any reason she’s not downstairs with the rest?”

Steve’s voice was as cold and stern as ever, making you shrink in on yourself, twisting your hands into the sheet. Peter stood in the opening of the cracked door, completely blocking you from view, and you swallowed. You’d overslept? The thought made your heart race, and in all the times you’d screwed up, you’d never flat out overslept and missed your duties.

You struggled to sit up, fear and worry filling you just as Peter spoke.

“She’s indisposed for the day, Steve,” Peter told him, shocking you. “Making her work would be cruel and unusual punishment.”

Peter’s tone was light, teasing, but both you and Steve knew there was a strong hint of truth there.

“It’s not like she couldn’t use more of that,” the blond replied, making you frown. “…but alright.”

He paused, and you were unable to see any kind of visual exchange between them.

“I’m glad to hear that either way,” Steve evenly said, but there was a lilt in his voice that told you his sentiments were genuine.

Peter’s gaze met yours when he shut the door, turning to face you with a small smile. You must’ve been wearing your confusion because when he reached you, he took your face into his hands, gently kissing you.

“You’ve had a long night. Of course, I wouldn’t let you do anything other than…rest,” he said, a small smile dancing along his lips as he drank you in.

You noticed the way his gaze lingered on the top of the sheet, his eyes tracing your skin.

“You feeling okay…?”

What a loaded question.

You knew what Peter meant, of course. Did you feel hurt? Unwell? Concerningly sore? However, your mind could only drift to your captivity and how alone you felt and how even if you wanted to find comfort in any of the other women here, you couldn’t. Your every move outside of this room was watched, scrutinized, leaving the only place to fully cope…with Peter.

“I’m okay,” you finally whispered, addressing what you knew he meant.

“Good,” he whispered, kneeling before you and taking your chin in his fingers. “I want you to be okay.”

You warily eyed him as he looked between your eyes.

“I know you remember what I showed you when you first got here…with Steve and…”

Peter trailed off, and you sharply inhaled, blinking.

“I want you to know that that…that’ll never be us. At least…I hope not,” he was quick to add. “I think you’d have to do something pretty heinous for me to ever resort to that.”

Peter held your gaze as he said this, tone sincere, and he stroked your skin.

“When I touch you…it won’t be like that. I don’t want you to be in pain, to be hurting. I’ll always only want to ever make you feel good,” he whispered.

You looked down at that, gaze finding the floor.

“Steve doesn’t agree.”

There was a heavy silence at your words, both of you recalling what the blond had thrown at Peter the night before. If Steve had it his way, Peter would’ve tied you to that same tree and debased you in front of half the household. There was a part of you that was convinced he’d still force Peter to do that one day, but if you could count on Peter for anything, it was to protect you from Steve’s wrath.

“No…he doesn’t,” Peter eventually agreed. “…but you’re not his.”

You looked up at that, eyes meeting his.

“You’re mine.”

For the first time, those words didn’t make your stomach twist in discomfort. Instead, relief settled in your gut, grateful that you didn’t belong to Steve…but instead Peter. You swallowed and watched him as he stood, and you closed your eyes when his hand rested on the back of your head, cheek pressed to his stomach.

“You know that, now…right…?”

You recalled your angry words from last night, tearfully proclaiming that you didn’t want to belong to Peter. You recalled the slight pause, the way his eyes had glinted, the almost hint of hurt you saw there. Your gaze lowered to the ring on your hand, a symbol of that ownership, and as much as you hated the sight of it, something in you saw it as a shield.

A barrier between you and Steve’s ire, his unquenchable desire to break you down in the same way he’d done to Margaret.

You were Peter’s…and Steve couldn’t hurt you.

“Yes,” you finally answered Peter’s question, almost too quietly. “I know that.”

Peter’s hand under your chin tilted your head up, and he leaned in when his eyes met yours.

“Are you sure?”

Pressing your lips together, you reluctantly nodded.

You weren’t surprised when Peter kissed you again, but that didn’t mean you were eager when his hand drifted to your naked shoulder, trailing towards the sheet and fingering the material. You ducked your head, heart pounding as memories of last night assaulted you. Peter only rested his face in the crook of your neck, kissing your skin.

“I thought you said you were mine,” he murmured, and you felt him take your hand.

Pain flared in your finger as he squeezed the ring.

“I am,” you shakily assured him.

When he pulled away, his dark gaze met yours, only briefly, but it was enough.

Reluctantly, you didn’t turn away when he kissed you again, and when his arm snaked around your waist, you didn’t push it away no matter how much you wanted to. Peter was like a man starved as he laid you down, hovering over you as he pressed open mouthed kisses to your skin.

You clenched your teeth when he wrapped his lips around one of your breasts, tears in your eyes at the conflicting emotions you felt. Peter raped you—he was raping you—and despite the horror and helplessness you did feel, you could only manage to tell yourself that it could be so much worse. He could be brutally taking you outside for all to see. He could be hurting you to the point of making you bleed, to the point of bruising you.

Peter could be so much worse, it was true, but he was still bad.

You kept telling yourself that, kept repeating it to yourself, but the way his hands danced over you didn’t feel bad. The way his lips left gentle kisses on your skin didn’t feel bad, at all. His soothing praises and his fingers on your face and his teeth scraping your neck, nothing about it felt bad even though you knew you didn’t want it.

You struggled to breathe as he thrust into you, hands on your waist and holding the lower half of you up as his knees pressed into the bed. Your hands slid along the bed as your gaze became fixated on the ceiling, fighting to hold in the moans you wanted to let out as he drove himself into you. He was hitting something in you that had you squirming against your will.

Your first orgasm snuck up on you, and you jerked beneath him, and like the night before, Peter was confident that you could take another. Your own hands covered his, trying to pry them off, the overstimulation making your senses go haywire.

“Peter, please-I can’t,” you breathlessly pleaded.

You needed a minute to breathe, to think, to wrap your head around how quickly you’d been forced into the inevitable chapter of your captivity that you thought—hoped you could avoid.

“Shh,” he softly soothed you. “I know you can, pretty girl.”

He had your hips pinned, and when you looked at him, the determination in his eyes to get what he wanted told you to just give up. The soles of your feet pressed into the bed, sliding and digging into the mattress. Against your better judgement, you reached up to press your hands against his stomach, and Peter sucked his teeth.

“Stop,” he slowly drawled, one hand sliding up to press down just below your chest. “Stop it.”

“Peter-.”

“None of that,” he whispered, his dark eyes staring you down as he slowly pushed his cock into you. “Behave…and take it.”

You didn’t have a choice, something you already knew, but you still threw your head back, tears kissing your eyes. You could hear it every time he thrust into you, an embarrassing sound that made you squeeze your eyes shut. The hand just under your chest made it’s way to your neck, and Peter pressed his thumb to the front of your throat.

He leaned down, his body fully pressed to yours, now, and you opened your eyes, unsurprised to find his gaze already on you. He stared into your eyes as he dipped into you, his cock plunging into your walls as he made a home between your thighs. His thumb grazed your chin before completely swiping along your mouth, his other fingers still on your neck.

“I’m so glad I chose you…”

His thumb pulled your bottom lip down just a tad, another thrust making your toes curl.

“…and I know you will be too.”

[mrsparrasblog]

Poly141 x German Reader on May Celebration

Just a random thought I had at work, lol. So, in parts of Germany on the 1st of May, men steal a tree for their girl and decorate it with a big heart, and the name of their love is written on it, then they place it in front of her home. It's like a funny courting ritual.

Gaz: He was too busy dancing with you the whole night in another May festival (you basically dance at midnight celebrating the start of May to keep bad ghosts away, lol). You were so hungover the morning after, not even realizing that the rest of your enormous cuddle pile was missing, so prepare for sloppy hungover morning sex.

Price: He really found it kinda silly, but 'happy wife, happy life,' right? He stole that damn tree, placed it in front of your window, and was settled. To his surprise, when he woke up the next morning, his tree was gone, replaced by a bigger tree and a smirking Soap.

Soap: He is a sucker for tradition; he introduced you to every Scottish tradition there ever was and will be, and you were always so excited, especially when he took you on a road trip through Scotland. Needless to say, yes, he fucked you while he had a kilt on, and no, he doesn't wear any underwear under the kilt. So who was he to refuse when his precious bird wanted a bloody tree? So he stole the damn tree, saw Price's tree, threw Price's tree away, and showed you his with pride, telling you it's the biggest in the whole neighborhood. He even, despite your whines of staying home because of your hangover, took you to the celebration. (In some cities in Germany, there is like a big tree, and several men want to climb it to take the heart out of it to get the chance to show their bird they are the best men to court.) So Soap is there, ready to climb that bloody tree. He just forgot that Germans are all so tall (like 6'2 - 6'10, lol), but he still managed to be the first on top. Needless to say, you needed to praise him the whole way home, and god, you never were so well fucked before.

Ghost: He finds it weird and doesn't want to compete against Soap in the bloody tree climbing thing. 'Would have won anyways,' he grumbled. He wouldn't, Soap is like a dog with a bone; not even the big, buffy Lieutenant wins against him. So Ghost made the only smart choice and bought you the first peonies of the year since they mostly sell at the start of May till the end. He also tried to bake a rhubarb pie but failed, lol.

Dont ask what this is my work right now is standig outside for 8 hours greeting guests while its 30 Celsius outside so my brain comes up with the weirdest thoughts lol

[my-heart-beat-for-anime]

Feyd-rautha x Atreides reader headcanons pt.3

Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3

- the black sun burned on the sand of the arena, which was soaked with the blood of the slaves killed in honor of yours and Na-Barons engagement

 - the Atreides were appalled at how many lives were lost just to celebrate

 - Feyd was standing in the middle of the bloodied bodies, staring intently at his betrothed, who was sitting next to his uncle

 - he made his way towards the tower with quick steps and when he reached just below the spot he dropped to one knee and looked up at the figure of his betrothed

 - I was confused as to what he was waiting for and why all the people watching this fight were suddenly silent and watching you with the same focus as na-baron

 - the baron's huge hand landed on your shoulder, " He is waiting for his prize Lady Atreides."

 he grunted in your ear and nodded to the slave who was handing me the knife. My confused expression must have told the baron that I had no idea what to do.,, He shed blood for you in the arena, now you must go through, now you need to spill yours blood for him."

 - I approached the edge of the balcony and looked down at the waiting Feyda, whose eyes were wide in anticipation.

 - I cut my hand with a sharp knife, held it out in front of me so that the blood could fall freely.

 - but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Feyd-rauth as he swallowed my blood as it dripped onto his lips

 - after a while Feyd stood up and shouted something in the Harkonnen language, which I didn't understand, but the crowd went wild, thanks to the words and shouted the same words as my future husband.

 - the baron laughed behind me and pointed out, "My lady they are shouting for you, they are shouting for their na-baroness."

 - at that moment I was filled with pride and excitement

 - in the end it won't be so bad to marry him, there was still the boy in him who carried me on his back when i got hurt

 - the morning of the wedding arrived and the servants were swarming everywhere to prepare everything in time

 - the wedding was supposed to be mainly in House Harkonnen style, but my father was able to talk the baron into allowing one tradition of House Atreides, that the bride and groom have a net soaked in water draped over their heads during the ceremony to bind the new couple together into a happy future.

 - this tradition was one of the oldest in Caladan and I desperately wanted to follow it, I didn't want the whole wedding to be based on my future husband's lineage, but I wanted to have a piece of my heritage there as well.

 - the whole day passed too quickly and before I knew it I was standing in front of the door of the ceremony hall.

 - my father had tears in his eyes and gently kissed my forehead before he offered his arm and we both walked towards the altar.

 - Feyd was happy, he knew from the first moment he saw her that she would be his. Even if he had to start a bloody war because of her, he would do it. And now he was finally going to have her, watching her float to him on her father's arm.

 - as if in a dream he stretched out his hand to her and helped her climb up to him, he didn't even notice when someone threw a wet net over them and cold water started running down his neck, he didn't notice the words of the man who was giving them away. He snapped out of his stupor, when he and his soon-to-be wife were invited to pour their blood into cups and drink each other's blood. He didn't even notice the blade that cut my palm, I could only watch her as she slowly swallowed my life-giving liquid.

 - Oh how beautiful her lips looked when red blood glittered on them

 - her blood was sweet I wondered what her next fluid would be so sweet. Now finally came the favorite part of Harkonnen weddings, namely the hunt.

 -,, If I were you, I would run away, my na-baroness."

[callsign-rogueone]

together

platonic! Xaden x gn!reader x Garrick words: 1.3k 🏷: prequel flashback that contains mild fourth wing and iron flame spoilers, 17-18 y/o Xaden and Garrick and gender neutral reader who was their childhood friend (this could be angel, but I purposely left it vague) hurt/comfort, reader dressing Xaden's wounds and brief mentions of blood, tears, fluffy ending (who doesn’t love a good old fashioned friendship cuddle/nap pile?)

The knock on the door of the room you’ve been assigned pulls your focus away from the book in your hands that you haven’t really been reading, just looking at the pages absentmindedly; you can’t bring yourself to enjoy it, not with everything else going on around you.

You know it’s Xaden from the rhythm -- he’s using the secret knock you and Garrick had come up with as children; the same basic pattern, ending with one tap for him, two for Garrick, three for you, and four for Bodhi; your age order.

“Come in,” you call.

You aren’t expecting him to look so dejected, his shoulders slumped and head hung, looking utterly defeated, shirt off, held limply in his hand. “Talk to me,” you say gently, immediately concerned.

“I’d do it myself, but I can’t see them,” he says quietly, turning to show you the bloody cuts covering his back.

Your jaw drops. There has to be…

“One hundred and seven,” he answers before you can ask. One for each of you. They’d turned a respected tradition for marriage and parenthood into a punishment, carving into his skin over and over, deep enough to make sure it would scar.

“Oh, Xay…” you breathe, stunned.

“I cut a deal. We’re safe,” he responds. “All of us. But we’ll be forced into lives of service to the crown as dragon riders.”

You don’t fully process the terms, too busy digging around for a first aid kit. There’s one in nearly every room of this house, a military protocol that his father had taken quite seriously.

He sits on the edge of the bed and hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lowering his head as you work in silence, cleaning and disinfecting all of the cuts as delicately as you can, but he still flinches away from the sting of the alcohol against his raw skin.

“I’m almost done,” you promise.

He doesn’t respond. You don’t expect him to; he’s never been particularly chatty, but you know there’s a storm brewing behind those dark eyes right now, but you’ll be there for him when it starts.

You coax him to sit up a bit so you can wrap the gauze, wrapping him in it from shoulder to waist to cover all of the cuts, and helping him put his shirt back on.

The pain of getting his arms through the sleeves is the last straw -- he finally starts to cry.

You know hugging him would just cause him more pain, and you can’t stroke his back, not wanting to put any pressure on the torn skin, so you settle for petting his hair, smoothing your fingers through the dark strands and gently rubbing the back of his neck to relax him.

“C’mere,” you coax, leaning back against the headboard and setting a pillow in your lap.

With a soft sound of discomfort, he shifts his weight down, resting his head on your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, clinging to you tightly. His body shakes with sobs as his fingers dig into your skin, and you feel like your heart has been ripped in two.

You‘ve only seen Xaden cry once before, when you were ten, and his mother’s marriage contract expired, giving her the right to leave Tyrrendor and leave Xaden’s life forever, disappearing without a trace. You’d held him like this then, too, let him sob into the collar of your shirt and spent the rest of that day sitting with him and Garrick in near-silence, trying not to cry over the loss yourselves, needing to be strong for your friend.

His mother had always been kind to the three of you. She’d loved Xaden dearly, and appeared to tolerate Fen, with no obvious signs that she wanted to leave, but nonetheless, she’d taken the chance and ran with it, literally. It remained unclear if Xaden had gotten to say goodbye — he likely hadn’t, given the extent of his distress, probably hearing the news from his father before he ran to find the pair of you.

You realize now that it might not have been her decision, that Fen might have asked her to leave. But you’ll never know for sure — he, along with your parents, is lost to you forever.

You don’t tell him it’s okay, because it isn’t, but you need to say something, to acknowledge his pain and the sacrifice he’d just made for you and all of your friends, for people neither of you have even met.

“I know it hurts, X,” you soothe, stroking a hand through his dark locks as he continues to sniffle quietly. “I’m so sorry they made you do that. I’m sorry for everything. You didn't deserve any of it. None of this was your fault."

The door opens with a soft creak, Garrick stepping inside. His eyes widen at the sight of Xaden still trembling, clinging to you and crying, which is disturbing enough in itself, without the open first aid kit on the nightstand next to you and the pile of bloody cotton balls that you’d used to clean his wounds.

“Uallach,” you whisper. Responsibility.

Garrick puts it together quickly enough — Xaden was forced to take the traditional cuts for all of you. He sits beside you both on the arm of the couch, quiet. “I’m so sorry, Xay,” he says softly, brushing a hand over the other boy’s shoulder, careful not to nudge the bandages. 

Xaden adjusts his hold on you, reaching out with one arm — the one bearing the same relic you’re all stuck with now, that smoky black pattern that covers the skin — wincing at the way the motion tugs the cuts on his back. He takes Garrick’s hand in his, holding it silently, a gesture with multiple meanings; a bid for comfort, wanting to have his best friends close, but also a reminder that the three of you are in this together, and an apology; in his deal with the general to save your lives, he’d been forced to agree to all one hundred and seven of you enrolling in Basgiath war college as dragon riders — a death sentence of its own.

“We’ll all be okay,” Garrick promises softly. “We’ll heal, and we’ll adapt, and get through it all, together.”

Xaden’s tears have dried, leaving him with a headache and that hollow feeling you get after a thorough cry. He feels heavier against you, a sign that he’s drifting toward sleep. Good. Rest will help him heal, and give him a break from this exhaustion.

Garrick takes a pillow from the other side of the bed, motioning for you to sit up a little. You move incredibly carefully, not wanting to disturb Xaden in his delicate state, but thankfully he doesn’t seem bothered by it, too worn out to notice or care as Garrick places the pillow behind your back to make you more comfortable.

“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly. 

“Tired,” you answer. 

“We could all use some sleep,” he concedes, kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket, cuddling up against the both of you.

You hum in agreement, fighting a yawn. You haven’t been able to rest much this week, constantly working to take care of the younger children, and the sleep you did get has been plagued by nightmares of the days prior — you’re exhausted. 

You hope Xaden’s dreams will be kind to him — he looks peaceful, still breathing steadily. 

“Get some rest,” Garrick says softly. “Tomorrow will be a new day, and we can start figuring all of this out then.”

You let your eyes drift shut, leaning your head against his muscled shoulder. You’re all going to be sore when you wake up from sleeping like this, bar Xaden, who looks perfectly comfortable where he’s curled up between you like an overgrown puppy.

Garrick is right. The three of you will get through this, together.

[cazzyf1]

An Article about Lella Lombardi - Nobody makes jokes about women drivers around Lella Lombardi

The sleek Lola T-332 racing car crossed the starting line at the river side, Calif, Grand Prix, hurtled ahead of three cars, and swooped back inside with split-second timings.

"You mean that's really a girl?" Muttered three times indianapolis 500 winner A. J. Foyt, looking on in incredulously from the side liners.

For Lella Lombardi, the first woman in 17 years (and the second ever) to compete on high performance Formula One circut - the big leagues of professionals auto racing - the question is all but invetable. What in the world is a nice Italian girl like Lella doing in overalls and a crash helmet, risking her life at speeds close to 200 miles an hour?

"That's what mama keeps asking me," says the tomboyish 31-year-old Lella, "I guess she thinks I should be home with a good husband and a houseful of bambini."

It was obvious from the beginning, to Lella at least, that she was cut from different cloth compared to most girls. Born in the little Piedmontese village of Furgarolo, she was hooked on auto racing before she was out of diapers.

"The first I remember, I am perhaps 4 or 5 years old," she recalls, "I was making little cars from things I found in my mum's sewing box. When I was 8 I decided I shall be a racing driver. I didn't say anything but I made up my mind."

As a teenager Lella raced motorcycles with boys in her village. The boys were scandalized she beat them - their mothers that she was racing at all. Eventually the village priest came to call.

"He explained why I should be like a girl and what a girl must do," she remembers. "So I told him, 'yes father' but all the time I am thinking why am I not allowed to do as I want."

Nothing if not persistent, Lella saw her first race at 18. Five years later she brought a car of her own, secondhand, Formula Monza 500 that she tinkered with and drove in races herself. Last year, nearly after a decade of coming up through the ranks, she was approached by March Racing Ltd, of England which was looking for a driver for its two-man Grand Prix team.

"Formula 2, Formula 3, Formula 5000 - I raced in them all," says Lella, "I win a lot in Italy - six times women's champion. So when March comes to ask me to try out for them, I say to myself, 'Why not?'"

March's decision to hire her was hardly made lightly. A single Grand Prix car costs $100,000 and putting it through a season of racing costs several hundred thousand dollars more.

"Putting a woman into a Grand Prix cockpit means shattering a lot of tradition," acknowledges March team manager, Max Mosley. "Of course, my wild told me, the only reason I was hesitating was because of Lella's sex, no doubt about her skill, in the end, I guess my wife was right."

Now prepping for this Sunday's Monaco Grand Prix, Lella is given little chance of winning a race this season (although she finished a respectable sixth in last week's accident-shorter Spanish Grand Prix) since March is designing its cars. Some drivers perhaps disturbed by Lella's invasion of their male peserve, doubt the chunky, 5"2, Lombardi has the stamina for long-distance racing. But March chief Roy Wardell, was watching her during a gruelling test of the company's racers, disagrees.

"Thrasing a car about it bloody hard work," he says, "most male drivers would have been bitching and complaining but she drove more than 300 miles flat out without a whimper." Her main fault, says Wardell, is a rookie's understandable caution. "Lella is still a bit afraid that if she spins out everyone will say, 'see a woman driver'" he says, "but her confidence is building. Pretty soon she'll be mixing it up with the best of them."